


The Darkest Hour

by Cheers



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 07:57:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 46,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20542748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheers/pseuds/Cheers
Summary: AU starting at the end of Robin Hood s3 episode 309 and ending about a month and a half after 313, and featuring Guy of Gisborne and Meg. What "really" happened after they escaped from Nottingham?(written in June 2009, cross-posted from FFnet)





	1. Chapter 1

The darkness had descended. For once the forest was still, the only movement that of the water flowing lazily by, the only sound that of Guy’s broken sobbing as he sat on the riverbank cradling Meg’s limp, delicate body in his arms.

He had prided himself on not having cried since he was twelve. Nobody has _seen_ him cry since he was eight. When his parents died, his grief had taken the shape of silent, unrelenting suffering that was so thickly laced with guilt as to leave no room for tears. He had managed to block the memory from his thoughts in his waking hours, but the grisly fire still crackled and blazed in his nightmares, and he would wake up in the middle of the night suffocating in panic and lie awake until dawn, eyes wide open, his mind in anguish, his throat tight with pain. He had since learned to tire himself out during the day so that by midnight he would be sinking into heavy, dream-free sleep until sunrise, but the sleepless years had left him with permanent dark shadows around the eyes that forever gave him a haunted look.

Then, after that endless, unbearably bright day in Acre, the nightmares had started again. Only this time, instead of roaring flames, it was the blinding sun and the glint of his blade as it plunged into Marian's flesh. In those months, he had drunk himself to unconsciousness more times than he cared to remember, even though he had always been good at holding his liquor. But he did not cry. He could not.

Truth be told, Guy had had few regrets about being captured and none about being sentenced to death. Surely, he had been angry at Isabella – the conniving little witch had once again got the better of him – but it paled next to the relief that awaited him. No more nightmares. No more memories.

No more guilt.

If the next hell was merely about cauldrons and boiling tar, it was a welcome proposition by comparison.

So he thought until a beautiful, cruel twist of fate had sent him the only soul who cared if he lived or died. Or rather, the only soul who cared and did _not_ want him dead. It had been too good to be true, and so it had to end.

And for the first time in his adult life, the tears came freely.

Why her, he sobbed breathlessly, dear Lord, why her? If only he could have given his life to get hers back, but no, his worthless, wretched existence continued as a beautiful, kind-hearted, brave creature lay dead and crumpled in his arms, and no amount of praying would bring her back. There were no second chances in this life; the knowledge had been branded onto his heart by fire and steel. It was useless and foolish to hope for one.

More time passed – an hour? Two, three? It could not possibly matter. Eventually, his eyes dry and stinging, his mind drained and blank, he rose carefully, still holding Meg, and started along the riverbank towards the eastern edge of the forest. The abbey of Kirklees was only two or three miles away, and he would go there to make sure Meg got a decent burial. He could not leave her in the forest in a filthy pit of a grave under a makeshift wooden cross. Such graves were for blackguards like him, not sweet souls like her. The last thing he could do for the mortal angel who had saved his life would be to care for her in death. He was crying again, but kept walking so long as he could still see the path by the moonlight.

After a while the familiar bulky outline of the abbey loomed through the trees. For an instant Guy wondered whether news of his arrest and escape had reached the abbey, and whether the nuns would have mercy on him. Still, they had to do their Christian duty by Meg, and if they called the guards on him next, so be it. Then again, this was the only place around where he might not be unwelcome, as his generosity to Kirklees had been perhaps his only redeeming trait in this life. Ever since the old abbess had taken the few coins he had been able to save to hold a mass for his parents’ souls shortly after the fire, a meagre payment that would not normally have procured the service, he had felt indebted to the abbey, so much so as to send them generous donations during his tenure at Locksley.

It took a few minutes for a sleepy nun to shuffle across the courtyard to unlock the gate at the late hour. The elderly woman staggered back at the sight of Guy holding a girl’s lifeless body, but her querying gaze softened when she saw the torment in his face.

“My lord... do come in.” She stepped aside to let Guy into the courtyard. “What has happened?!”

"She rushed in front of a pike to save me," he managed. "I have come to beg you sisters to give her a Christian burial on consecrated ground.” his voice broke, and he sank down in the middle of the courtyard, his precious burden still in his arms.

_“Mater santissima_,” the nun crossed herself and raised her hands in horror. “Who would do such a thing?!”

I would, he thought bleakly, a few months ago I would. I _did_.

“It was meant for me. I was to be executed but she tried to save me, so they caught her and wanted to behead her as well. There was... commotion...” He could not imagine that Hood’s appearance had anything to do with getting either of them out alive, “and we were able to escape but my dear girl... Meg received the blow by the pike that should have been mine to take. I could not possibly bear to see her buried in the forest.” His voice was steadier now, but hollow and lifeless.

“My lord, I am certain that the abbess shall give her consent. I shall tell her first thing in the morning. But if you would wish to speak to her yourself, may I ask you to come back after the morning prayer? We have no guest quarters for men...” She was deeply apologetic.

“I shall come back then.” He needed to make sure that the abbess consented, and would also give her the gold chain he wore his cross on to pay for mass for Meg. He could do with a piece of string instead. “Where may I put her?”

“Let me show you to the chapel vestry, my lord. We shall leave the poor soul there until morning and I shall call the sisters then to take care of her.”

_Take care of her_. What an accidentally cruel turn of phrase, as if she were talking of someone wounded, or ailing, rather than dead. Guy stood up and followed the nun inside, up a flight of stairs into the cold, dusky chapel lit by a pair of candles flanking the crucifix on the altar and half a dozen oil lamps under the crude stained glass images behind it. The nun took one of the candlesticks as she motioned for Guy to follow her through the vestry door.

There was a long, narrow table inside, along with chairs and chests containing the vestments and ornaments. Guy gently laid Meg's body on the table, wondering distractedly at how it had not gone stiff. As the nun put the candlestick down by Meg's head, Guy looked intently at her face, her features fine and angelic, her expression peaceful. Death had taken none of her beauty; she was still as fresh and lovely as when he had kissed her in the forest. He gazed at the girl, wishing he could etch the image upon his mind. This was likely the last time he would see her; he was not even sure whether they would allow him to attend the burial. As the anguish threatened to overwhelm him again, he sought in vain to distract himself by taking Meg's hands from where they lay by her sides, and moving to cross her arms in her lap.

Then it hit him.

Now that his eyes were accustomed to the dim light, he was looking at the dark bloodstain on the bodice of her ornate dress, noticing how much bigger the stain had become. He grabbed the candlestick and held it above Meg's stomach - and gasped as he saw the fabric glistening with liquid.

She was still bleeding.

This could mean only one thing... but it could not be! Do miracles happen after all?!

The nun said it for him.

“My lord, _benedictus Domine_! She is alive!”

Guy could not speak; he had dropped on his knees by the table and cupped Meg’s cold face in his hands, laughing silently with relief and giddy joy as tears streaked down his cheeks.

.


	2. Chapter 2

Standing at the edge of the forest, Guy watched the sun’s first rays play on the abbey roof.

In the frantic bustle that followed the revelation, he had done little save for carrying Meg into the infirmary. After directing Guy to the building across the yard, Sister Clara – he had finally asked her name just as she scampered off to the dormitory to awaken other sisters who oversaw the infirmary – had joined him there with no fewer than four others in tow. Their curious glances darting from Guy to Meg, they conversed in dramatic whispers before rushing off to fetch supplies upon the arrival of the brisk and authoritative Sister Philippa, the head of the infirmary, who busied herself with examining Meg’s wound as Guy walked out and sat on the steps leading from the cloister down into the courtyard.

Despite himself, he was amazed by their kindness to him. Certainly, Meg was an innocent young soul, and he was dealing with _nuns_, for heaven’s sake; but when Sister Clara had run off to wake the others, he had almost feared - now that he could admit it – that the nuns would be reluctant to help because _he_ had brought her. Especially now that he had neither money nor status to his name.

Especially now that he was so obviously vulnerable.

He had dreaded vulnerability. Every time he had let down his guard, he would end up hurt. Damaged. Weakened. And there was nothing more despicable than being weak.

There was nothing worse than the sinking, sickening feeling that choked him when he was feeling powerless, defenceless, humiliated. The sneering faces standing by the fire as his parents were dying had taught him that. His own self-loathing at not being strong enough to stand up for himself and his sister had taught him that.

It had become his twisted prayer, his daily admonition to himself. _I shall be strong_. No matter what sacrifices he might have to make. No matter what attachments he might need to give up, what parts of himself he might need to shut down and burn away. He would be strong, always.

And if that meant being heartless, so be it. It was easier that way.

And yet he had crawled to the abbey with his heart bleeding in open view, and had received kindness and compassion. Had received help that could keep a precious creature alive.

And yet Meg had found him worthy of salvation when he was at his weakest, stripped of the armour of cold, vicious arrogance that had become his second skin like the leather jerkin he had worn – the one he had burned in Acre the day his life had ended.

_Is it really that wrong to be human_?

Almost an hour later, an exhausted Sister Philippa had appeared in the infirmary doorway and, meeting Guy’s anxious stare, announced that “the girl had lost a great deal of blood, but there was hope” as relief spread once more across his face.

Before leaving, he had spoken briefly to the abbess, Mother Beatrice, who had declined his offer of gold and assured him that Meg would be well cared for. A shrewd but virtuous woman, she had heard enough about Guy’s deeds to know that he was far from righteous, but was not inclined to close the doors of her abbey to a former benefactor whose recent misfortunes had apparently taught him humility and, if his quiet but impassioned plea on behalf of the girl was any indication, had awakened his compassionate side. If a sinner like Gisborne could walk away from a life of wrongdoing, it was her duty as a servant of God to help him stay on that path. Her benediction at their parting had been genuine in its warmth.

Now that he was alone again, he was mortally tired, and happy, and sad at once. And, for once, almost hopeful.

He turned away from the abbey and walked back into the forest, for the first time noticing its subtle, secret beauty as sunlight danced on the dappled leaves and birds chirped in the branches high above.

He had witnessed a miracle. There must be a measure of justice in the world after all, as Meg would live to see another day - and hopefully, many more years. He wondered what sort of life she would have, and was inexplicably stung by the thought.

He would miss her.

How could he miss someone he had met two days before, who had only shared a few hours – less than a day - next to him in a grubby dungeon cell, had exchanged but a few words with him, half of them taunting? Yet in those brief hours he had glimpsed such a pure, lovely, lively mind, such a courageous heart, as he had rarely seen in his lifetime. And in the same few hours, she had risked her life twice to save him without giving it a second thought.

_Enough. Leave the girl be._

_Kiss me_, her broken whisper echoed in his mind, _please_.

_She was delirious, and surely thought she was dying_.

_But she knew it was _me_, and still had asked for the kiss_.

_Stop. It. Now_.

Experience told him that hope was a slippery slope that led to no good, an insidious poison that worked its way into his heart only to burn it with the scorching intensity of acid. He would not give in to the hope of finding love, not again.

But she would live.

***

The room was spinning.

Meg had opened her eyes to a blur of wooden ceiling beams and whitewashed walls tinged golden by fading sunlight, and had to immediately squeeze them shut again to escape the nauseating dizziness. The surroundings were definitely unfamiliar: it was not her small, cosy room at the manor. It was not the spacious, lavish bedchamber she usually occupied at cousin Eleanor’s. It was not… was not she supposed to be in a dungeon?

She heard a noise; someone was stirring in the room. Reluctant to open her eyes again, Meg called out to the unseen presence.

“Hello?”

There were footsteps – light, a woman’s.

“Thanks be to God. You are awake.”

“Where am I?” Tentatively she squinted at the worried-looking middle-aged woman in a simple gray habit.

“You are in Kirklees abbey, my dear, in the infirmary. I am Sister Catherine, I help tend the sick here.”

“Am I sick?”

“You are wounded.”

The memory exploded in her brain, the searing pain of steel cutting through skin and tissue, the dull throbbing ache and creeping delirium that followed. Being carried in the deep shade of the tree canopy, feeling lost in a man’s blue eyes, the distress raw in his handsome face. Had he kissed her? She seemed to remember it, the exquisite sensation fading as darkness closed in on her. She struggled to pull up earlier memories of that day: the dank gray courtyard of Nottingham Castle, the chilly air, the jeering crowd, the rough wood of the executioner’s block against her neck… and then the axe landing with a deafening _thwack_ an inch from Guy’s face.

_Guy!_

It had been him kissing her, Guy of Gisborne, her fellow prisoner, the dark, handsome, shattered man who had broken her heart in the castle dungeon with four simple words. _I am already there_… He had tried to save her, and she had tried to save him; the fateful day’s events had assembled in her mind’s eye with brilliant clarity.

Where was he?

Her eyes snapping open, Meg started forward, trying to sit up in bed, but the jolt of pain made her fall back onto the pillow, clutching at the bedding as the dizziness returned. Sister Catherine rushed up to her and put her hands on Meg’s shoulders as if to pin her in place, though by then Meg had no wish, and no strength left, to move again. Still, her voice was suddenly strong and urgent.

“Sister, do you know what happened to Sir Guy of Gisborne? He was with me when I was wounded, we ran away together…” She wondered for an instant if it was a good idea to announce both of them as fugitives from justice, but the words were out of her mouth already.

“He brought you here, you poor child.”

Meg exhaled. It meant Guy was still free. But where?

“When was that?”

“The night before last; Sister Clara said he had carried you here just after the matins.”

_Carried me here_, she thought wistfully, _I wish I had not been unconscious all that time_.

“Do you know where he is now?”

“I am afraid not, my dear.” Seeing the disappointment in Meg’s face, she added:

“I know he spoke to Mother Beatrice yesterday, if you wish I will tell her that you were asking.”

Meg grabbed Sister Catherine’s sinewy hand.

“Please do, I need to know! I need to know he is safe… I… need to see him again.”

.


	3. Chapter 3

_Why would anyone, ever, want to live in the forest?_

Guy hissed angrily as he scrambled around the forest floor looking for firewood. It seemed to have been all over the place every time he had looked before – but now that he needed it, there was not a dried twig in sight.

Granted, he did not resent the forest as much anymore, and even found it pleasant on occasion; but the memory of dreadful months when he and Isabella had been reduced from noble landholders to feral animals rankled still. The cold that never seemed to leave their bones, the permanent fatigue from lack of proper sleep – they had resorted to sleeping in trees for fear of men and predators before they figured out that they should take turns sleeping on makeshift beds of dried leaves - the noises that never went away. When Guy came back to Locksley and drove Hood into the forest, it seemed like perfect justice to give the usurping weasel a taste of his own medicine before he scrambled away to some faraway friend’s manor… who knew that the brat would take such a liking to it?!

He was almost surprised at how little anger the memory of Hood had provoked, considering that the immeasurable insult and injury that had befallen his family had been young Locksley’s fault. Robin had always been an annoying, pampered braggart, forever treating the Gisborne children, albeit his elders, with a faint but unmistakable air of superiority. But on the infernal day that Guy would have given anything to have erased from his memory, as Locksley gleefully betrayed his father and stood smugly by as he and Isabella were chased down the road like stray dogs, Guy’s vague dislike of the boy had turned into intense hatred.

And ever since providence had offered him a chance to repay the debt of malice to the little traitor, Guy had seized it with relish. He had always dreamed of gaining land of his own to hold it in the Gisborne name, of giving that name once more the respect it deserved, but Vasey’s appointment in Nottingham had presented Guy with a truly delicious opportunity for vengeance.

Guy shook his head abruptly and slammed his hand into a tree, wincing more from shame than pain.

Claiming Locksley in its owner’s absence had given him satisfaction, but he had been all too eager to twist the knife. He could not bear to recall his despicable plan. But it was no less true.

His first thought, at hearing that Robin of Locksley was betrothed to a maiden who lived nearby, had been vicious delight at having found his ideal weapon. He would flatter and bribe his way into her company – if his luck would have it, into her heart – and hopefully, into her bed – and then leave her shamed and shattered for Locksley to bewail.

The idea had stunned him in its heartless perfection.

And then he met Marian, and his world turned upside down.

He sank down against the tree and banged his head against it, trying to shake the sickening memory. How had he sunk so low, anyway? How had he, by his early thirties, become so ruthless and cold-hearted as to surprise even himself?

He had paved most of the way on his own accord.

Yet the first step, he knew, had been imposed upon him. He still remembered the first time he had killed, even as it made him wish his memory had failed him altogether.

They had subsisted on whatever they could find in the forest all summer and autumn, but with the seasons changing, they needed to seek shelter better suited to humans. It was unbearable to think of returning to Locksley as servants or labourers, so they wandered off to Nottingham and from there, made their way northeast to Lincoln. Guy had easily found employment as a castle groom – he had always been good with horses, and at his age, already an accomplished horseman – and after a month or so of anaemic searching, Isabella finally installed herself as a chambermaid in the city treasurer’s household. Things, it seemed, were looking up... so long as they both could forget that they had been born nobles and had become servants.

Which, unfortunately, was not easy to do. Guy would bear his shame in silence but Isabella would spend the rare hours they had together nagging and complaining about their disgraceful station. In the end, finding it more and more difficult to put up with his sister’s whining, Guy took to spending his free waking hours in the town taverns.

He had always, even as a youth, had a good head for drink. It was a mixed blessing at best when all he needed was to numb his brain, but it also kept him alert to danger.

On that occasion it had saved him.

He was about to leave and make his way back to the castle stables and his shabby sleeping quarters when someone tackled him in the alehouse courtyard. His first thought was about the attacker being a robber, and he was deciding whether to part with his remaining coins or pull out the dagger he had carried concealed in his boot when he landed roughly face down on the rotting hay in the corner, the stranger on top of him. He could still feel the sweaty, hungry hands on his body, the hoarse whisper in his ear.

“That’s it, boy, nice and easy, just how I like it.

He felt the bile rise in his throat.

This was no robber. The man was going to _rape_ him.

Guy jumped up away from the tree trying to fight the nausea and stumbled aimlessly forward. All those years later, the queasy feeling of momentary powerlessness was as disgusting and real as ever.

The rest had been a matter of seconds. He bent his knee as his hand shot down to grab the dagger and as he slashed the arm pressed against his throat and the attacker wailed in pain and rolled away, Guy stuck the dagger into his ribs with such ferocity that the blade broke.

He remembered being sick. He remembered staggering back to the castle on shaky legs, and sitting huddled in the heap of hay that served him for a bed until the sun rose and the bells tolled for morning prayers.

He would never be defenceless.

As soon as he had enough money, he bought himself a new dagger. And then, for good measure, a second one.

As time went on, however, and the revolting memory faded, he had begun to hope that he would not kill again.

But before long he had been driven to another murder by his sister’s carelessness, though she had absolved herself from responsibility even as she later branded him a ruthless killer.

.


	4. Chapter 4

Guy allowed himself a bitter smile. His only living blood relative now hated him with an icy passion, blaming him for every misfortune to ever have befallen her, cursing him for her prison of a marriage. And yet it had been her own scheming, self-absorbed nature that had led her there.

About a year after the fire, Guy and Isabella had decided to go to France in search of relatives. As they made their way painstakingly to Portsmouth, doing odd menial jobs along the way to get food and shelter, Guy had become increasingly frustrated with his sister. She had always been spoiled, an eagerly awaited younger child their mother had doted on and their father had freely indulged. Even as a small girl, she had become highly accomplished at getting her way and shifting the blame for her misdemeanours to Guy, who was profoundly nauseated by her pretence at wide-eyed innocence but thought it beneath himself to expose her as the guilty party. And by the age of twelve, she had grown into a keen manipulator, quick to gauge people’s reactions and pander to their weaknesses, hungry for attention, and unashamedly vain. At that age, she was already a singularly attractive girl and revelled in the attention she received, caring little for the danger it put her into and flippantly declaring to Guy that “it was his duty to make sure that she was safe” even as she flirted precariously with any man who had cared to look at her, from barbican guards to tavern rabble. Guy had stepped into more fights than he cared to recall just because Isabella’s antics had brought tempers to boiling point, and yet her mock repentance afterwards had never failed to get through to him and keep him forever ready to jump to her defence.

Until she had seemingly bitten off more than she could chew.

They had been in Portsmouth for three months, saving to pay for their passage to France. The usual unruly crowd had assembled at the Ark; men looking for forgetfulness and release, for alcohol and flesh. That day there was an important patron among them: Philip Thornton, young owner of an extensive estate in Shropshire. The man made up for his lack of pedigree and breeding by wearing expensive clothes and looking self-important. Nothing could make up for the cruel twist of his mouth and his heavy, mocking stare.

But he was a man, and he looked rich.

Isabella was intrigued.

Guy, who had once again found himself a groom’s job, was at the tavern to try and get drunk. Isabella, who was working there as a kitchen girl, was not supposed to deal with the patrons; when Guy had found the job for her he had been very specific with the owner about that. Yet there she was, dressed in her finest clothes (worn as they were), smiling seductively as she flitted around with the ale mugs, savouring the lewd stares directed her way.

_Little fool_, thought Guy as he stared her in horror and anger, _do you even know what you are getting into? You are making promises you could not possibly keep_.

But with her eyes firmly on her prey, she ignored Guy’s silent appeal.

Her advances had apparently paid off, for the next day Thornton had come up to Guy in the stables and asked him about his sister, querying her lineage as if she were a prize horse. He was bone-chillingly practical. He would give Guy three hundred marks for her if Guy would consent for Thornton to take her to wife.

“I will make an honest wife out of her, provided that she is an honest maid.”

The colour rushed into Guy’s face. He wanted to strangle the man, smash his face in before kicking him out.

Instead he said, “She is, I am certain of that”.

The mockery in Thornton’s glare was unmistakable. _How would you know_?

“But I need to consider your proposal,” Guy continued. He found Thornton detestable, and the thought of Isabella marrying him, shallow and insincere as she was, made his skin creep.

“I will be at the Cavalier Inn for three more days,” Thornton replied matter-of-factly before bidding Guy a terse farewell.

Later that evening Guy went back the tavern to see Isabella flitting among the patrons once again. It was obvious why; Thornton was there.

So were a pair of obnoxious drunks who were watching her every move and were forever getting in her way.

“Isabella, you have to leave, now,” Guy had urged her the moment he could. “This is not safe.”

“Do not ruin it for me, brother,” she scoffed. “I am finally having a good time. Besides, it is your duty to keep me safe, is it not?”

Guy only gritted his teeth.

As the evening progressed, the leering got worse, until Guy, who had been briefly distracted by the arrival of another mug, suddenly stiffened at the realization that Isabella was no longer in the room.

Thornton was still there, drinking and snickering as he listened to a lewd joke.

But the two drunks were gone.

Seized by dreadful apprehension, Guy dashed into the back yard of the building – its main entrance was too public to be a danger spot. The moment he had opened the door, he heard her muffled screams. One of the men was holding Isabella in a firm grip as the other had his hand on her dress, trying to rip off the bodice.

Guy slammed into the man, sending him stumbling to the ground as he levelled a fist at his companion. With the sickening crunch of impact, the man squealed and swore, grabbing his broken nose as Isabella, released from his grip, scrambled off to safety.

And then both of them, robbed of their prey and entertainment for the evening, turned their fists on him.

He fought back as hard as he could but with the blows raining on him from two directions, it was soon obvious that it would be a losing battle unless he used a weapon. He never parted with one of his daggers but had been reluctant to use it, remembering too well the sickening sensation of blade driving into flesh. But this was a matter of life and death, and no time to be scrupulous. He pulled out the blade and slashed one of them across the chest, relieved to see him stagger backwards, apparently wounded gravely enough as to be out of the fight.

At that instant, however, his companion had kicked the blade out of Guy’s hand.

Guy turned on him, kicking his legs from under him, his hands on the man’s throat. They kept rolling on the ground until the man crashed into the tavern door – and Guy, using his disorientation, lifted him by the shoulders and slammed his head, as hard as he could, against the stone step.

His body went limp as a trickle of blood appeared from his ear. The man was dead.

Guy stayed on the ground, dimly aware of people rushing out startled by the noise, and let someone pick him up and lead him staggering off to safety. His victory had earned him respect, murderer or not.

Isabella was nowhere in sight but he was too badly beaten to go looking for her. _I hope she is safe_, he thought as he slipped into heavy slumber in his stable corner.

The next morning, as he lay wincing from pain, his sister condescended to pay him a visit.

With Thornton in tow.

“Oh, brother dear, I do hope you feel better soon!” She chirped as she swatted away Thornton’s hand creeping up her side.

Something snapped inside him at the sight of her cavorting cheerfully with the tense-looking man even as he lay beaten and crushed on a filthy bed.

“I am doing just fine,” he said.

The next day, as soon as he was strong enough to get out of bed, he went to seek out Thornton at his inn, and gave his consent to Isabella’s marriage. And took the money.

In the brief week between the betrothal and the wedding, Thornton had already struck Isabella twice. When she went to Guy to complain, he replied calmly that she was in her future husband’s power and it was not his place to interfere. He listened to the usual barrage of insults and honey-coated blackmail and walked out of the room without saying another word.

At the wedding, as he took her to the altar, she kept hissing “I hate you” through her veil. As she stepped into Thornton’s carriage and looked back, her eyes were screaming accusations at him, but he no longer cared.

.


	5. Chapter 5

The money had provided him once more with earthly comforts. He relished the food and wine, the new clothes, the warm beds, the chance - that had seemed unattainable - to reclaim the position in the world that should have been his. Encouraged, he continued to France in search of family, but reaped his reward in disappointment as he discovered that his father’s family had perished in a plague outbreak and his mother’s closest relatives, three older cousins who had never even seen her, lived in impoverished despondency on a family estate being cut into ribbons by their numerous and greedy progeny.

France had had its pleasures, too; he thought almost fondly of the tournaments, the feasts, the willing women and laissez-faire men, the thrill of showing off his prowess in the saddle and with the blade and the freedom that came with speaking his native language instead of submitting himself to the daily punishment of conversing in Saxon. But in the end, he was a stranger there too; alone, without family or old friends, he had no more chance of advancing in the world than had been afforded him in the land of his birth. And as the money trickled out, dreading the possibility of being once again branded an outcast and ridiculed as penniless, he took a return voyage to England. At least there he was used to being poor. But the despair was creeping up on him; as one more illusion had been stripped away, he had little to expect from the rest of his life. And yet he was only twenty-two.

On the night of his return, in Portsmouth, he had walked into a dingy tavern looking for a quick way to oblivion, but when another patron, a burly Saxon, started taunting him about his fancy French-cut clothes, Guy pulled out his dagger and stabbed him in cold blood.

He was astonished at how ordinary it had seemed.

After that, he stopped caring if his crimes had become too many. He was condemned anyway, there was no salvation for him, no forgiveness for his untempered aggression.

He might as well enjoy it.

It was then that he had found Vasey – or rather, Vasey had found him.

He had been sure he would die.

When yet another tavern fight had disintegrated into deadly dagger strikes, Guy was not going to meekly crawl away. He had acquitted himself well. Unfortunately, it also meant that he had stuck his dagger into a tax collector’s neck.

The man was off duty, and there was no way to tell that he was an official of the crown; his soiled clothes and randy behaviour spoke of tavern filth rather than important office. It was only when the guards rushed in and surrounded Guy still crouched beside the body that he knew he had taken a bad step.

As he was led to the dungeon, he was suddenly aware of a pair of keen, shrewd eyes watching him from a corner of the tavern with a combination of curiosity, disdain and... was it lust? He chose not to ponder it. He would never see the man again.

Yet he did.

The next morning, as he was readying himself for an eternity among the flames, the guard called to him and, seeing his resigned look, apparently decided to impart the happy news right away.

“You are not going to hang after all, you rascal. Sir Martin’s guest has won you.

“Won me?!” .he repeated with sudden dread.

It had turned out to be true.

Vasey was the guest of Sir Martin de Brise, the local sheriff, and happened to be looking for bodyguards when his eyes fell on the handsome youth in the tavern. He had admired the man’s catlike grace as he lunged and spun in the midst of the fight as if it were a beautiful, engrossing dance, and wrinkled his nose in disapproval as the guards led Guy away. _Such a gorgeous boy should not go to waste... good fighter, too_.

Talking Sir Martin, a fellow Black Knight, into a card game for the boy’s life had been ridiculously easy. Cheating at the game, even easier.

And so Guy had lived, and had become, in effect, Vasey’s property. Vasey had never reminded him of the circumstances of their acquaintance, but it always hung in the air as an invisible trump card that the man could use at any moment. On the surface, nothing kept Guy from leaving, though he knew that his days would be numbered the moment he crossed the threshold of Vasey’s tower.

On occasion, he wondered if he should do it anyway.

Nonetheless, for many years to follow, it had seemed that Vasey had been a blessing.

Little by little, he had brought Guy closer to his machinations, elevating him from one of his guards to the captain of the watch, then to captain of the guard, and finally to his second-in-command as he was appointed the Sheriff of Nottingham. Little by little, he had pried out Guy’s story and had seemingly shown an interest in his ambitions. Having seen the lecherous glint in Vasey’s eye, Guy had made a point of telling the older man the circumstances of his first murder and was later relieved to note that he had apparently taken the hint. Whatever unfortunate stable boys might be the objects of Vasey’s lust, Guy was secure in the knowledge that the man’s advances towards him would not go far beyond dirty looks. In a different vein, he was confused but at the same time encouraged by Vasey’s lighthearted dismissal of his crimes. Those men were weak, he had said, and you were right in asserting your strength. The words had struck a chord. Guy had not paid close attention then but his mind had nonetheless registered the flash of cruel amusement in Vasey’s eyes as he observed his new protégé. He had found the boy’s own weaknesses, mapped his sensitive spots, and from that point onwards, would expertly play on them to twist Guy’s mind, and warp his will, to his liking.

And now, it all fell into place.

In his greedy, vindictive ambition, drunk on power and violence, Guy had blinded himself to how much Vasey had manipulated him. Until now.

Guy clenched his fists in white-knuckled fury. He almost wished that Vasey were still alive so that he could kill him a second time. When it had happened, he had been distracted by the pain and the momentum of the fight, had been fleetingly confused by Vasey’s apparent spark of humanity. Given the chance again, he would relish the killing.

How could it be that he had aspired so much to strength and yet had led a life so despicable in his spineless slavery? True strength was not about steel and muscle; it was about freedom of the mind, independence of judgment.

And he had lacked it so miserably.

Regardless of what motives he had had, whether of his own will or at Vasey’s instigation, he had committed unspeakable crimes.

And the rest of his life might not be enough to atone.

Guy looked up from his unhappy musings to see the sunlit meadow peeking through the trees at the edge of the forest, and realised that he had walked all the way to Kirklees Abbey.

For a tantalizing moment, he thought about going in to see Meg. Surely she should be conscious by now – shouldn’t she?” and maybe she would even speak to him. Maybe the tentative, tenuous bond that had emerged between them would still be there.

No.

He had no right to sully her existence with his depravity. She was definitely better off if spared his company.

His head hanging low, he retraced his steps back into the forest.

.


	6. Chapter 6

_Dearest Eleanor,_

_I sincerely hope that my letter finds you in good health and your family prosperous as ever. I still think back fondly to my last visit to you at Pontefract Castle and the wonderful times we shared, and wish that we may again find ourselves enjoying each other’s company in such happy circumstances. _

_And it is with some hesitation that I ask you for a substantial favour. As fate would have it, I have come upon a string of misfortunes. My father has persisted in his attempts to find me a husband, and since I did not find the choice of new suitors any more satisfactory than the ones I previously wrote to you about, both his and my patience was sorely tried, which led to a rather unfortunate resolution._

_I cannot relate to you the full details of my current situation save to say that I am at present residing at Kirklees Abbey recovering from a sickness brought about by the said events. As my health is considerably restored, it would forever indebt me to you if you would arrange to come to Kirklees at your earliest convenience to take me, for a short while, under your roof before I return to my father’s home in search of a reconciliation. In any event, I shall eagerly await your reply and send my prayers for your health and happiness._

_Your loving cousin_

_Margaret_

Meg blotted the ink from the vellum, carefully rolled up the letter, and just as carefully lifted herself up from the chair. Her wound was healing but still gave her considerable discomfort, shooting forth tendrils of pain at any remotely abrupt movement. She gathered up her robe – her dress, although mended, was too restrictive for the bandages so she was dressed in a novice’s garments – and trudged out of her cell and along the corridor to Mother Beatrice’s quarters.

“My child, it worries me greatly to think that you might intend to travel so soon.” the abbess had listened to Meg’s preceding explanation with a grave face. “Your condition is much improved, but Sister Philippa tells me that it will take two more weeks for the wound to heal properly, and even then you will need to rest for most of the day.” The abbess took the letter from Meg’s hand and placed it on her writing table.

“Mother, I thank you for your kind concern and I assure you that I have no intention of leaving the abbey in the next few days.” Meg struggled to keep the urgency out of her voice. “This is merely to appraise my cousin of my misfortune. But I do believe that she will wish to visit me at Kirklees in any case, and by the time she may arrive here from Yorkshire, which would be no sooner than Sunday, we would know with fair certainty if I am fit to travel.”

“Very well, I shall send a messenger at dawn tomorrow. Pontefract Castle, is it?”

“It is indeed. And thank you, Mother, from all my heart.”

“May the Lord’s blessing be with you, child.”

Meg stepped out of the chamber and let out a sigh of relief. In the few preceding days, she had spent most of her waking hours thinking desperately of a way to leave the abbey. This had nothing to do with the way she was treated; the nuns were exceedingly kind and attentive, and she wanted for nothing. Under Sister Philippa’s competent care, her wound was healing and her life was no longer in any danger. And yet she was growing more and more restless. 

She had had no word whatsoever of Guy.

Mother Beatrice had told her of their brief conversation, but other than passing excitement over his great concern about her, Meg had obtained no clues as to his whereabouts. He had not told the abbess if he was coming back to Kirklees, and had left no word as to where he could be contacted.

She had waited, unwilling to give up hope, for him to come back regardless. But the days went on; Meg was finally able to leave the stuffy infirmary to spend her day sitting in the ivy-clad cloisters and her evenings watching the nearby village settle down for the night from her cell window, and yet Guy had not returned.

Which meant either that he was in danger, or that he did not want to see her. Either possibility made her heart ache and, unable to bear the gnawing suspicions any longer, she decided that it was time to think of a plan.

Leaving the abbey on her own was out of the question. The nuns and Mother Beatrice would never let her leave alone and for an unknown destination. Were she to give them a false destination, they would give her an escort to see her safely there, which would defeat her purpose. In any case, she had nowhere to go nearby but back to her father’s manor - she might as well go straight back to the Nottingham dungeon and on to the scaffold – and by then Mother Beatrice knew it as well as Meg did. She thought briefly about bribing or cajoling one of the nuns to let her slip out, but their well-justified worry for her was her undoing. The slightest hints at an unsanctioned departure to Sister Catherine had sent the poor woman into a frenzy of questions and entreaties, and Meg had to admit that it was a lost cause.

Thus her only option would be to get someone from outside to come to her. She wished she could write to Guy and beg him for an answer – surely, even if he had no desire to see her, he would not begrudge her a line or two telling her if he was safe? The trouble was, of course, that she had no idea where he was.

Finally, the solution presented itself in her mind. Ever since her mother had died, her elder cousin Eleanor, married to a lord of a large estate and master of considerable wealth, had shown great kindness to Meg and her little sister – and when poor Agnes had succumbed to smallpox and Meg went to stay at Pontefract Castle for several weeks, she and Eleanor became close friends. In the years that followed, Eleanor had sent Meg numerous invitations to stay, always readily accepted. Her own life was rather restrictive, her two infant children her main source of joy in the face of her husband’s callous arrogance, and Meg, a charming and lively companion who was only too eager to escape from her morose and domineering father, was always a breath of fresh air in the sumptuous but stifling castle.

It was to Eleanor that Meg had decided to appeal in her predicament – and yet she knew that she would need to tread very carefully to bring her plan to fruition. She could not very well disclose the full extent of her misfortune and the real nature of what was troubling her, knowing that any letters addressed to Eleanor would, in all likelihood, pass through her husband’s hands and, above all, that Eleanor’s decision to travel to Kirklees would not be entirely her own. She would have to say enough to make it obvious to Eleanor that her presence at Kirklees was urgently required, yet not so much as to awaken Lord de Lacy’s suspicions, which could bring her, once more, into her father’s hands. She had spent long hours mulling the letter over, and equally long hours penning several versions, until she had written one that she was pleased with – the one that Mother Beatrice was about to send the following morning.

***

“Meg, you are out of your mind!” Eleanor fumed. “You called me here so that I would help you do _what_?!”

Lady Eleanor de Lacy was a lovely, graceful young woman - a blonde, slightly taller version of Meg. Her richly embroidered dress swept the stone floor of Meg’s cell as she paced between the window and the door. Meg was positively trying her patience; she had scrambled madly to make it to Kirklees just two days after receiving Meg’s ominous letter, only to find out upon arrival that the greatest danger to her cousin’s safety apparently came from herself!

“Eleanor, please, hear me out! I will explain everything, but I beg you not to refuse me outright!”

“Very well,” the older woman said wearily. How could her dear, demented cousin expect her to help smuggle her away from safety and into the middle of a _forest _while she was nursing a wound?!

Slowly, collecting her thoughts so as not to skip back and forth and get everything confused, Meg told her cousin the turbulent, exhilarating story of the previous week. Eleanor could not help noticing how Meg’s eyes sparkled at the mention of Guy’s name, but could not help her apprehension, either.

“You say this Lord Gisborne was Sheriff Vasey’s deputy?” She had heard rumours of Vasey being a black-hearted, vicious fiend.

“Eleanor, Guy is _not_ Vasey! He is brave, and honourable, and he was kind to me. He begged his sister to kill him to spare my life, it was his last request when he thought he was dying!”

_His sister has become Sheriff and one of her first acts has been to sentence her brother to death? Oh Lord, and I thought my family was troublesome! …Then again, my poor Meg was sent to judgment by her own father._

_“_And he brought me here, he carried me all the way here and he begged Mother Beatrice to take care of me!”

_And he kissed me._

Eleanor was torn over Meg’s account. This Gisborne was likely in a lot of trouble, and Eleanor did not even want to think about what sort of person a lieutenant of Sheriff Vasey’s might be. But the man’s actions did speak for themselves… True, if her dear cousin had not rushed to save him she would be safe and well. But bewitched as she was, Meg was too bright and level-headed to have fallen for a heartless monster. And he had taken pains to save her…

Eleanor sighed. Somewhere between the fear and sympathy, she had become increasingly aware that she envied her younger cousin. Meg was in love with this tragic stranger, that much was obvious. And by Meg’s account, his conduct towards her had been nothing short of chivalrous. And Eleanor, whose hand had been contracted into a loveless marriage for all the good reasons in the world and who had hardly ever entertained the possibility of things ever being otherwise, was suddenly gripped by pangs of sadness and envy at Meg’s unfettered feeling.

She could not stand aside and watch her cousin’s heart bleed and her hopes shatter. She would give Meg the chance she had been deprived of herself. She would grant her freedom and pray as hard as she could that Meg’s heart had made a good choice.

“Very well, cousin. I think you have contracted a particular brand of insanity, one that is contagious. What is it that you want me to do?”

Meg stifled a groan as she rushed to her cousin and flung her arms around Eleanor’s shoulders. _I really need to watch that wound_. _But I always knew cousin Eleanor was an angel!_

Two hours later, just before midday, the carriage trundled out of the abbey courtyard. The gathering of nuns waved their goodbyes, Mother Beatrice made the sign of the cross, and the gates closed.

“You are a reckless, ungrateful girl,” Eleanor scolded, venting her annoyance but knowing full well that her admonitions were futile. “These pious souls have cared for you and shall pray for your safety not knowing that you are running off happily into danger!”

“I know, Eleanor, I _am_ ashamed.” Meg threw her an apologetic smile. “But I cannot help it, cousin dear, if another day goes by and I have no news of him, I will lose my mind.”

“You need not worry, you have lost it already. So what is next in this brilliant plan of yours?”

Another hour later, as the carriage bumped its way along the muddy track running through the forest, a shadowy figure swung from an overhanging branch to place a nasty-looking knife at the coachman’s throat.

Everything was going according to plan.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> De Lacy is the name of the real builders/11-12th century owners of Pontefract Castle in Yorkshire. Eleanor, however, is obviously fictional.


	7. Chapter 7

**“**Halt, or I shall kill you!” a muffled voice called to the coachman from beneath a patched-up cowl.

“We have every intention to cooperate,” Meg shouted, sticking her head out of the carriage window.

“Oh... it is you... my lady!” the cowl was removed, revealing the wide-eyed mien of Much.

“You are one of Robin Hood’s men, are you not?” Meg continued, injecting her voice with all the authority she could muster and somewhat more courage than she felt.

“Y..yes, and you are the young lady that the Sheriff was going to execute two weeks ago!” Much was clearly unbalanced by the identity of his quarry.

“You are absolutely right. And even though we are both outlaws, I am prepared to pay our passage through the forest.” She took the velvet coin purse that Eleanor had been holding ready and dangled it just out of Much’s reach, “if you do me a small favour.”

“What would that be, my lady?” Much was mesmerized in equal measure by the girl’s audacity and by the promise of reward almost within his grasp.

“I am looking for the man who saved me... Guy of Gisborne.”

“Gisborne?!” Much gasped and Eleanor, sitting just out of sight inside the carriage, frowned. _Just as I thought, the man is probably a scoundrel... then again, the one talking is a highwayman._

“He saved my life,” Meg continued forcefully and Eleanor could not help admiring her cousin’s poise. “I have not had news of him and am concerned for his safety. I will gladly give you the money,” she produced the purse again, “if you tell me where I can find him.”

Much took a moment to ponder his predicament. He had in fact seen a glimpse of Gisborne roaming around the forest, and had a fairly good idea of his whereabouts. If his inkling was correct, the man must have found shelter in one of the caverns hidden by the overhanging riverbank not five miles from the spot they were at. Much had kept utterly quiet about it up until then, knowing too well that the moment his master heard about it, there would be no stopping him from going there to pick another brawl. He had begun to suspect that his master no longer even wanted to kill Gisborne but derived a grim satisfaction from engaging his enemy in fistfights. And yet Much feared for his master’s fate at the hands of his bigger, angrier adversary.

But surely these ladies had no intention of telling Master Robin? And the purse was bulging so temptingly... Still, better to be safe than sorry.

“You promise, my lady, that if I tell you, you will never tell my master?”

Meg almost jumped out of the carriage.

“Yes, a thousand times yes!” She opened the door and stepped out, wincing as her hand shot to her side.

Momentarily forgetting the business transaction, Much rushed to help her.

“My lady, please be careful!”

“She is not very good at that,” said Eleanor dryly, following Meg out of the carriage and helping the younger girl sit down on the grass by the roadside.

“Oh... good day to you too, your ladyship.” Much was obviously impressed by the exquisite workmanship of Eleanor’s dress.

“I am Eleanor de Lacy, and I am her cousin.”

“I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Lady Eleanor.” Much was positively turning courteous. “Where would you be going?”

“_I _am going to Nottingham, to rent a room at an inn and await my cousin there. _She_ is going to wherever it is that you saw him to look for this Guy of Gisborne. _This world must be coming to an end_, thought Eleanor, _I am having polite conversations with robbers so that my lovestruck cousin can ask them for favours_!”

“Ah yes, Gisborne,” Much was suddenly brought back to the matter at hand. “I saw him about five miles from here, by the river, and I believe that he may be there still. But it is a long way on foot, and you, my lady,” he bowed his head slightly at Meg, “seem to be in a poorly condition.”

“Of course she is,” Eleanor interjected. “She has, however, asked me to lend her one of the horses in this eventuality.” She nodded at the pair of chestnut mares harnessed to the carriage. “I will make it to Nottingham with one horse.”

“Oh... but they are not saddled, my lady!” Much’s tone was one of genuine alarm.

“We have a spare saddle at the back of the carriage,” Meg chimed in helpfully. Her carefully orchestrated plan had provided for a short stop at the village of Kirklees to buy it. “if you would help us. Thomas, will you please unharness one of them and help our acquaintance here saddle her for me?” this was directed to the coachman who was still huddled on his perch and clearly had no wish to renew his acquaintance with Much, but only shrugged as he set about undoing the harness.

A few minutes later, one mare saddled and the other harnessed, Much and Thomas carefully lifted Meg into the saddle. Eleanor walked up to Much and handed him the purse.

“This is the payment as we have agreed. But I would request,” she added, trying to mimic Meg’s commanding tone -._how come she does it so well even though she is younger_? “that you accompany my cousin in her search until you see this Gisborne fellow.”

Much sighed. The last thing he wanted, next to Gisborne fighting his master, was Gisborne fighting _him_. But then again, the lady’s presence might distract him...

“I will, my lady.”

Eleanor nodded.

“Very well. Meg, I shall wait for you at the Wanderer’s Rest then.” she turned at Much before resuming her seat inside the carriage. “Please do not let her out of your sight until you find him.”

“I will not, my lady, I assure you!” Much looked warily at Meg, as if fearing that she was planning to escape.

“Thank you.” _At least one person among us seems sane_.

“And thank _you_.” From atop the saddled horse standing beside the carriage, Meg stretched her hand to touch Eleanor’s.

“You are completely insufferable and you know it. But I shall pray that you go safely.” Eleanor’s face softened in a wistful smile “And I shall pray that you find your gallant knight alive and well.” she squeezed Meg’s hand and looked away sadly as the carriage pulled off.

…_and _I_ pray that he does not turn me away_, Meg thought as she flicked the reins, steering her horse to follow Much onto the narrow path leading to the river.

***

Guy rummaged through the piled-up firewood outside his riverbank shelter and threw a bunch of twigs on the coals he had kept smouldering in a pit, hoping to start the fire before nightfall. _I am out of habit of living like this_, he thought wryly as the small tongues of flames gave way discouragingly to thick white smoke. As he turned back to his firewood heap in search of a dry strip of bark – _ just saw it, damn it_!” his attention was distracted by a rustling noise in the undergrowth. His head shot up to the new danger – for what else could it be? - and in the next moment he grimaced and swore as he tripped and almost fell into the pit.

For there, watching him as she perched awkwardly atop a pale chestnut mare, was Meg.

.


	8. Chapter 8

For an endless instant they stayed motionless, Meg on horseback at the edge of the clearing, Guy staring at her from beside the fire pit, until Meg poised her hands on the pommel as if to climb down from the saddle and Guy was struck with terror at the thought of her hurting herself. How could they have let her ride out in her condition?!

“Meg, no!” he covered the distance in a dozen long strides, almost at a run, and put a restraining hand on her hip, only to take it away in embarrassment as the audacity of his gesture sank in. A moment later, he was compelled to add: “What are you laughing at?”

“You, the way you look.” her eyes sparkled in amusement. “If I did not know you any better I would have thought you were afraid!”

He clapped a hand to his forehead and chuckled as he shook his head, his long black tresses swinging with the motion.

“You did frighten me, young lady! What are you thinking traipsing about alone in the forest when you should be in bed?”

_Young lady_. _I am not a child, Guy, it is about time you remembered that._

“What else did you expect me to do when you disappeared without a word?” her tone was stern.” Or did you imagine that I would not be worried?”

_How could I dare imagine you _would_ be_? He stepped closer to the saddle and gently placed his hands about her waist. “Here, let me help you down.”

Her wound responded to the motion with a nagging ache but Meg hardly noticed. A commonplace enough gesture felt like an intimate embrace as Guy lowered her carefully from the saddle until her feet touched the ground, his eyes never leaving hers. Once on the ground, she was reluctant to take her hands off his shoulders.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?”

_For being here. For being alive. For not sending me away... not yet, anyway._

_“_For... helping me down from the saddle, my lord.”

“Meg, I am an outlaw living in the forest. Considering the circumstances, I find you calling me “my lord” rather inappropriate.

“What would you like to be called then?” she asked when she had stopped giggling.

“_Guy_ would do.” _Damn, I have made it sound too direct, as if I were forcing informality on her! “_Well, _Sir Guy_, if you wish.”

“Guy it is, then,” Meg seemed utterly unconcerned with the subtleties of etiquette.

Taking her arm, he led her over to the riverbank. He knew that the wound must hurt still; having sustained enough of them himself, he knew that it took a while for the pain to go away and that movement always made it worse, - and he wished he could have just carried her instead. But that would not have been appropriate, either.

_What in the world is wrong with me? I am getting more self-conscious than a nun in an alehouse._

Once Meg was seated and the fire was finally brought back to life, Guy sat next to her. There was not much else that he could do by way of his duties as a host; he had spent most of the day collecting firewood, again, and had put off hunting until the morning, so there was nothing he could offer her but boiled water. But in that instance, he would rather appear a rude host than admit the truth.

“Now, my lady, will you please explain to me why you are not in the convent?”

_And yet he still calls _me_ “my lady”. At least it is not “young lady” this time! _

_“_I was doing a lot better and wrote to my cousin. She came to pick me up.”

“Very well; and where is your cousin?”

“In Nottingham.” Meg sounded defiant.

“And she left you alone in the forest?” _They must be a family of criminally reckless women_.

“Well, there was an outlaw we met, Much, who agreed to lead me here.”

_Much?! _Guy practically jumped. _Then stinking Locksley could be here any minute!_

“What is wrong? Guy, I am sorry, but how else was I to find you?!” Meg sounded almost desperate.

“Do not worry, my lady, it is just that... if Much knows where I am, _Hood _will know where I am and will come here looking.” _And for once, I am in no mood for fighting_.

“He will not. He made both of us promise that we would not tell his master. I think he is afraid that the two of you would fight again.”

For once, Guy laughed out loud.

“We have been known to do that... most of the time.”

_Oh my goodness, he looks years younger when he is laughing. And so... charming._

_“_This cousin of yours,” Guy pressed on, “does she live in Nottingham?”

“No, she is staying at an inn there. She lives in Pontefract Castle, in Yorkshire.”

“You have other family around here?”

“Not really. Eleanor is really the closest family I have left... well, there is my father too, but I would not call him family.”

“Do not say that.” Guy’s voice was soft but his face was serious. “You may regret it.”

Meg, however, was not to be swayed.

“He kept wanting to marry me off!” she suddenly remembered Guy’s words in the dungeon, and wished she could take back this last bit. “And he lied to me!”

“Lied to you?”

“When my mother fell ill... he sent me and my sister away saying that he would send for us when she felt better, and he knew that she was dying! I could have stayed with her...” Meg bit her lip and felt the sting of tears in her eyes. It was almost six years ago, and yet the pain was fresh and raw.

“Meg...” she was staring straight ahead but did not even flinch as Guy took her hand. “I know it must have felt terrible. Trust me, I know... I... lost my parents when I was about your age. But he... your father must have been worried about you. He probably could not bring himself to tell you... and he probably wanted to spare you the pain.”

“I do not want to be spared the pain!” Meg’s voice was shrill with anguish, but it was not Guy she was arguing with. “I would rather hear the truth, the ugliest truth than the prettiest lie!”

Guy looked at her – and then his gaze drifted away as he let out a slow sigh.

_How true._

He had always longed for it, to know the truth instead of having to struggle through lies, to be able to trust at least those close to him. And instead, he had faced endless deceit and betrayals. His beloved mother, lying to him and to the world about an affair with Locksley’s father. Isabella, twisting the truth whenever and however it suited her. Marian...

With Marian, who he had wanted to believe so desperately, the lies had hurt the most. Whenever he thought he could trust her, she would betray him again.

Whenever he would open his heart to her, she would inflict a fresh wound upon it.

In the end, it was a game they could not win. The mountain of lies had grown so high that they were forever expecting treachery from each other. It had robbed them of trust, and it had robbed them of the freedom of showing each other their true selves.

In a way, his love for Marian had been doomed to fail.

Just not the way it had happened.

“Guy?” the voice brought him back to the present. He looked surprised to see Meg still sitting next to him, her eyes intently studying his face.

“Sorry... I was... thinking about what you said.”

“You were thinking about _her_.”

“How do you know?” his quiet voice was filled with deep, unrelenting pain.

“You looked... hurt, and happy at the same time.”

He chuckled. _Women will do that to you_.

“Was she the old sheriff’s daughter? The young lady with dark hair who stayed in the castle?”

“Yes.” There was an undertone of curiosity in his voice. “How do you know _that_?” he was beginning to wonder if Meg was able to read his mind. _I hope not, not with all the memories in there_.

“I saw you together once.”

“Oh... Oh yes, you did say you had seen me once, didn’t you?”

“I did...” Meg pursed her lips. _I’ve seen you once._ When she had said it, she had not been entirely truthful. Still, it had certainly not been the right moment to mention that she had seen him _three and a half_ times... not counting the dream. Then again, _now_ probably was not the time to mention it, either...

“I did. We were in town for the fair at about Michaelmas last year and there must have been an important gathering at the castle. There were all sorts of fancy carriages –“

_The Black Knights_, Guy realized with a start, as Meg continued:

“and then there must have been a fire because everybody was running around shouting and fetching water. And then an hour later I saw you ride into town with the lady on your horse.”

It was still a clear, vivid memory. She had seen them ride into the castle courtyard together, Guy – she knew who he was by then - staring directly ahead, straight and proud, the girl –she must have been barely a year or two older than Meg – holding on to him as she sat behind him, her eyes exhausted. They had stopped in the middle of the courtyard and Meg watched in dreamlike fascination as Guy jumped down and lowered the girl from the saddle in what looked like the most tender embrace, as he slowly, reverently kissed her hand and led her up the castle stairs as if she were a queen.

Meg had seen her share of boys to know that they were rude, insufferable, pesky creatures, and by the age of fifteen as she was then, her father had thrust upon her the courtship of one or two older men who had only succeeded in provoking her revulsion. She had occasionally glimpsed servants’ romps in shadowed corners of the manor, and had on one occasion so exhausted cousin Eleanor’s patience as to force the poor woman to disclose to her what exactly happened between married couples in bed.

All that had filled her with varying degrees of disgust.

And yet when she saw the tall, handsome man treat his lady with such easy grace, she was captivated.

That night as she finally fell asleep, she dreamed of the dark, glorious knight by her side, saw herself in his strong arms, felt those gorgeous blue eyes on her face... and when she woke up, for the first and only time she found herself longing for a man’s company.

And now that man was sitting next to her.

Broken, tormented, lost. But it was still him.

Meg looked up as Guy called out her name, turning to him and seeing the spark of wry amusement in his eyes, and hoped he would not notice her blushing.

“Sorry Guy, I am just a little... tired.”

“Of course.” The amused look gave way instantly to one of concern. “It is getting late, and I need to get you to your cousin before dark.”

_Damn. Why did I have to say I was tired? Why did I lie to him?! Now I am reaping the punishment... but then, how could I have told the truth?_

_“_Cannot I stay here?” It was a desperate shot, but worth a try.

“No.” His voice was kind, but broached no argument. Meg, however, was not so easily defeated.

“I will not get in your way.”

“Meg, it is not safe.”

“I trust you to protect me.”

Despite himself, Guy’s smile was one of true happiness. But he would not give in.

“You are wounded.”

She _was_ wounded. And there was no food because he was no good hunting with a bow. And he needed a bath.

“But I am feeling much better.”

_So am I._

_“_You are still going back to Nottingham.”

Meg sighed. There was no arguing with the man. But in the next instant, a wonderful realization struck her.

There was only one horse for them to ride.

“Very well.”

They rode back in almost complete silence. As a rule, Meg found silence uncomfortable, especially around men, but found herself perfectly at ease – and entirely pleased with life – as she sat in Guy’s lap, her head on his chest, his arms around her. She was relishing the sensation too much to let words distract her.

Guy, overwhelmed with this unexpected undeserved intimacy, spent most of the trip fighting the tightness in his throat.

.


	9. Chapter 9

They reached the Wanderer’s Rest after sunset. It was an unassuming inn on the outskirts of the town, and in the gathering dusk, looked almost indistinguishable from the merchants’ houses and townsfolk dwellings. Guy helped Meg off the horse and held her hand in his as they walked over to the porch. She gave it an affectionate squeeze.

_I must be dreaming, _each of them thought_._

_“_Are you certain she is here?” Guy asked as they stopped just outside the door.

“I am. That is what Eleanor said, Wanderer’s Rest. She said she would take the best room here and wait for me.”

“Very well.” He pointed upwards to a wide window illuminated from the inside by a faint, wavering light. “That one is the best room. I will wait here for you to look outside. If there is anything wrong, knock on the window sill. Or shout, or something.”

Meg could not help smiling. He was being way too protective of her.

“I will. That is, I hope I will not. But I will look out.”

“Good night, my lady.” .He brought her hand to his lips. The reverent, lingering kiss from her dream.

“Good night, Guy. Until the morning.”

Guy waited outside until he saw Meg’s silhouette appear in the window. She knew he could not hear her but whispered again, _Good night, my lord_, as she waved at him, and smiled contentedly to herself when he waved back.

She hardly slept that night. Then again, neither did Guy.

He walked back to his cave shelter with the mare in tow – Meg had insisted that he take it – thinking back to the incredible day’s events. She had come to seek him out. And instead of lies, complaints, and accusations, everything he was so accustomed to hearing from women, had only said words of truth, and encouragement, and understanding.

He did not deserve it.

Yet he was no longer sure how he would be able to let go of her.

He stumbled on the path several times and had to keep giving the mare reassuring pats on the back as both were disoriented by the darkness – the almost full moon of his fateful visit to Kirklees having since turned into a thin new crescent – but for all he knew, it could be the brightest midday.

***

The following afternoon, Eleanor de Lacy strolled through the market stalls, relishing the freedom of being away from her golden cage of a home, as her thoughts wandered to the events of the past two days.

She had called Meg insane. Yet by now she was ready to admit that it a well justified sort of insanity.

If first impressions were anything to go by, Sir Guy of Gisborne was every inch the gallant, courteous knight her cousin had so admiringly pictured. And it did not hurt that he looked decidedly gorgeous.

They had agreed to meet that morning at a clearing in Sherwood Forest, and it had been Guy’s insistent request that Meg bring her cousin with her. Unbeknownst to Eleanor or Guy, Meg had been secretly displeased with it – she would have opted for a more private encounter instead – but agreed nonetheless. As Meg and Eleanor were left with only one horse, Thomas the coachman had been dispatched at dawn to procure another one, along with two saddles. The preparations over, the two women had put their horses to a brisk trot, Eleanor imploring Meg to slow down, Meg repeatedly reassuring her cousin that she was feeling perfectly well, even if her claim was somewhat exaggerated.

As they rode into the clearing, Eleanor’s eyes went wide when she saw Guy awaiting them. Meg had always maintained that he was a handsome man. But Eleanor was impressed nonetheless. _If this is what evil henchmen and outlaws look like nowadays_, she thought as Guy effortlessly steered the mare towards them and Eleanor was struck by his grace in the saddle, _woe be to the good and law-abiding men_!

His trip to Nottingham the night before had given him access to a cache of coins he had hidden away outside the castle when things had started looking suspect between him and Isabella, and a couple of those slipped to a castle servant loitering in a tavern had soon procured him his usual jacket and sword, as well as a shaving blade. It had taken some practice, and still seemed strange, to shave by his reflection in the river, but seeing Meg’s admiring gaze and noticing the thinly veiled appreciation in the eyes of the lady who he had decided must be Meg’s cousin, he was glad to have taken the pains to look presentable.

The polite introductions made, the trio left the clearing for one of the forest paths.

“So do you really just live in the forest, Sir Guy?” Eleanor was still incredulous.

“As of the past two weeks I do indeed, my lady,” Guy replied with a roguish smirk, “and believe me, I am just as surprised at it as you are.”

“What about the other outlaws, are you allied with them?” she asked, thinking back to their encounter with Much.

Allied _would be one hell of a strong word to describe it, _he thought as yet another smirk played on his lips_. Then again, we have not killed each other... yet_.

“We... manage to coexist, my lady. And for better or worse, it is a vast forest.”

“For better or worse?”

“Well...” Guy sounded momentarily self-conscious. “I _do _still get lost in it... from time to time.”

Eleanor had fought in vain to keep the persistent smile from tugging at the corners of her mouth.

***

A week had gone by, and Meg wished that time would stop and life would go on forever like that. Staying with her dear cousin away from Pontefract Castle – it was obvious how different, more relaxed, more adventurous Eleanor was on her own – and seeing Guy almost every day, albeit briefly, as he stole into Nottingham after sunset to get supplies and made his way to the Wanderer’s Rest, if only ostensibly to exchange the latest news of Isabella’s activities and ominous preparations. What more could she wish for? Well, maybe a bit more time in the forest with Guy, if she were honest with herself. Maybe a kiss or two.

Alas, the good times were coming to an end. Eleanor could not stay away from her castle forever, and when a second messenger from her husband arrived the night before, her cousin announced with a sigh that they would need to leave before the end of the week.

The next morning, Eleanor went into town, once more to stroll about the market. Meg, the fugitive, was confined to their room at the inn, poking distractedly at a piece of embroidery, the vine pattern looking more and more angular and uneven. To be honest, she was distraught. She had no wish to go to Pontefract Castle this time. She could not remain in Nottingham either, but how else could she stay close to Guy? He had made it clear that she could not live alone with him in the forest. What was she to do?

Still, Meg tried to push the thought away. There were three more days left before Eleanor needed to head back. Maybe she would think of something in the meantime. Maybe a solution would present itself. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sheepish knock at the door. Meg peered through a crack to reveal that her visitor was no more threatening than a maid. Unable, or rather unwilling, to discern the reason for her sudden disappointment, she opened the door and let the girl in.

“My lady, you have a visitor downstairs who asked if he could come up to see you.”

_He!_

“Yes, of course!” The maid almost jumped at Meg’s suddenly loud voice.

As the girl scurried downstairs, Meg caught herself. What if the man was not Guy? What if it was her father, or one of Isabella’s guards? Why was she so stupid, anyway?

But her self-recrimination once more gave way to joy as a few moments later Guy stepped into the room.

“Good morning, my lord,” she put on her best coquettish expression. “How is the forest this morning? Could you smuggle me out of here for a stroll?”

He looked uncomfortable.

“Actually... I do not have much time. I have come to say goodbye.”

Meg wished Guy had not seen her face. It took a moment for her to steel herself to speak.

“You are going away?” she wished her voice would not falter so.

“For a while, a few days, a week maybe.” Guy replied almost hurriedly, her disappointment not lost on him.

“Where?”

“York. Robin... Locksley and I are going to York.”

.


	10. Chapter 10

**“**Why?” the word was out of her mouth before she knew it. _Why York, and why Locksley, and why do you have to leave at all?_

“There is… someone in trouble there who we need to rescue. He is being held in the dungeon at York Castle and will die if we are not there soon. I will explain later.” Guy crossed the room to the window and peered out uneasily through the half-closed shutters. He had come to Meg because he needed to warn her of his departure, and wanted to see her before riding off into danger, but he was not ready for a conversation. Having barely received the news of his extended family, Guy was not prepared to share it yet. Not even with Meg. _Especially_ with Meg. He had not even come to terms with it himself. Archer was his mother’s flesh and blood, and that alone called for a rescue, but he needed to think things over before he could talk about them.”

Meg stared at him from her place by the door.

“In the _dungeon_? And how are you going to get him out?” This was sounding worse by the moment.

“Well… Robin and I will think of something,” he turned to look out the window again. To tell the absolute truth, Guy was not quite certain yet, but surely they would have time to put together a plan en route.

_Robin and I_… _since when has Guy become so friendly with his constant adversary?_ Having heard the tales about the ongoing feud between Robin of Locksley and Guy of Gisborne, Meg was highly suspicious of this sudden turnabout. Sure, Robin was a hero, had fought in the war and helped the poor, but he was a fighter nonetheless, and if Guy could be ruthless and cunning, so, in all likelihood, could Robin. Something seemed wrong; something was missing from the picture and if her fears were correct, it could all be part of some devious scheme by Robin Hood to put paid to his old enemy… which did not sit at all well with her.

“Guy, I do not like the sound of this,” Meg said bluntly. “I think it could be a trap on Robin Hood’s part, and I do not think you should go.” the worry had made her voice sound more forceful than she had intended.

He spun abruptly to face her again, his eyes blazing in sudden anger.

“Do not. Tell. Me. What to do!” he shouted, pointing a finger at her.

And froze when he saw the pained, petrified expression on her face.

Guy looked down, bringing up his hand to cover his eyes. What had he said? What had he _done_?

“I am sorry,” he said in a small, dejected voice. “This was…_.” Wrong. Unpardonable. Rude. “_uncalled for.”

He dropped his hand but still would not look up at her as he remained standing by the window. For all the talk about trust, he still had not found it in himself to trust her enough to avoid causing a mess. And now he had probably lost _her_ trust, anyway.

Meg did not know what to say. She had been momentarily frightened, and she was somewhat offended and not a little angry at Guy’s outburst. But she still felt her throat tighten at the sound of his abject apology.

A few moments later, unable to bear it any longer, Guy walked back to the door and turned to Meg just as he was about to leave. She did not resist when he took her hand, but avoided his eyes when he looked at her imploringly and said, once more:

“I am sorry, Meg. I – ”

_I wish I had not shouted at you._

_I may never see you again._

_“_Forgive me,” the words had barely been spoken when he was through the door.

A few moments later, Meg flung open the door of the chamber and rushed downstairs hoping desperately to catch Guy before he left. She had been too confused by it all – his sudden arrival, the news of impending departure, his secretive dealings with Hood and the general undertone of menace, and finally, his flash of temper followed by a display of profound humility – and had struggled to find the words to say to him. But now that he was gone, all she wanted was to look at him again – and maybe hug him, bad-tempered and all.

She was too late. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she distinctly heard the clatter of hooves on pavement as Guy rode away.

***

“What is wrong with you, Gisborne?” as they rode through the forest toward the Yorkshire border, Locksley was once again beginning to grate on his nerves.

“Nothing,” Guy answered gloomily. Seriously, was he supposed to tell this clown that he had just had a bad tiff with a woman he… what? Liked? Fancied? _Needed…_

_And since when have I started thinking about her as a woman and not a girl?_

_“_Nothing.” Locksley was clearly less than convinced.

Guy remained obstinately silent.

The most ridiculous part of this was that coming to think of it, he had quarrelled with Meg defending _Robin Hood_!

The brat was not even his brother.

But now, they knew they shared one.

_I am happy to have a brother, but sired by old Locksley? Mother dearest, how could you…_ \- he was thrown back momentarily to the memory stirred by the old man’s broken confessions of the preceding evening. But for once, he felt no rancour. And for once, he could remember his parents without guilt.

_That _was worth putting up with Hood for all eternity.

***

Eleanor had returned from the market refreshed and in good spirits and was therefore particularly shocked at seeing her little cousin sitting dejectedly on the bed staring at a crack on the wall opposite.

“Meg, what is the matter with you?” What is wrong?

Meg sighed and shook her head.

“I cannot force you to tell me but I will not be at ease until I know what is troubling you, and if there is any way I can help you!”

Still the same disconsolate stare.

“Have you had bad news?” Eleanor was beginning to suspect that she would have to enumerate all possibilities until she guessed the correct one. But presently, Meg gave up.

“Guy was here… he said he was going away.”

“Yes, and…?” _Wait a moment, going away? The rascal stole my cousin’s heart and is scampering off?_

“He is going to York…”

_Oh, it could be worse. At least he is not off to France_.

“…to rescue someone from a dungeon, Eleanor.”

_It _is_ worse. He may not be a rascal but if he is a chivalrous fool, he will get himself killed and break Meg’s heart anyway._

_“_I do not know what to do, Eleanor,” Meg blurted. “I cannot stand the thought of leaving, not while Guy is in York and I have no news, and I never even had a chance to tell him… and then I cannot bear to be at Pontefract and not see him… Eleanor, please forgive me, I cannot do it!” by now, Meg was quietly weeping.

Eleanor put her arms around her cousin.

_Poor girl… _

_…or should I say fortunate? _

_“_Meg dear, calm down, we are not leaving yet!”

“But you have to! You said it yourself, Lord de Lacy has asked you to return!”

“I can handle things with my husband if need be,” Eleanor wished she really had that conviction, but this time she was willing to disregard the censure that she risked.

“What is it that you want, Meg?”

“I do not know.. I have no idea what to do, Eleanor…”

But even as she spoke, her eyes shone and her face lit up with sudden inspiration.

An hour later, the cousins rode out once more in the direction of Sherwood Forest. Finding the fork in the road where Much had awaited unsuspecting travellers had been a matter of simply following the coach track, and glancing up the massive oak tree with its expansive branches, the young ladies were not disappointed.

Except that this time, Much had company.

“Oi!” called a bold, resounding voice from above, its owner unseen. “You cannot just ride past us and not let us take a better look at your ladyships!”

“Allan...” the muted response was unmistakably Much’s. “I do not think you should do this!”

“Why not, they are alone, they are lovely, and they look rich. Why should we want to part company so fast?”

“Well, are you gentlemen coming here to rob us or are you going to stay in that tree forever?” Meg was emboldened by the bizarre exchange and by knowing that they had at least one friendly face among the two to count on.

“Oh sorry miss, I did not recognize you!” Allan easily jumped down from his perch, flashing a cocky grin at Meg. “Feeling better, I see?”

“Yes, thank you. And you would be?”

“Allan-a-Dale, at your service! And, er, that’s Much up there…” Allan pointed up into the tree.

“We have already met Much,” Eleanor smiled despite herself. “I am Eleanor, Meg’s cousin.”

After a ceremonial bow to Eleanor, Allan turned his attention upwards again.

“It is the end of our friendship, Much, right here. You met these ladies and you never even told me?!”

“He helped me find Sir Guy in the forest last week,” Meg explained before remembering the vow of secrecy Much had sworn them to. But then, Guy and Robin Hood were going to York together; it would not matter now, would it?

“Giz?!” Allan’s huge blue eyes now seemed to fill his entire face.

_Giz?_

_“_Are you a friend of Sir Guy?” Eleanor was intrigued.

Allan paused. Sure, the first time they had spoken, Guy had ordered him tortured. But then again…

“Yeah, we’re friends.” And then, catching the incredulous stare of Much, who had joined them by the roadside, “What are you starin’ at?”

“We have come to ask you for a favour,” Meg continued in the meantime. Best to make the most of this meeting before Eleanor started worrying again. Talking her into supporting _this_ plan had not been easy.

“Well then, be our guests,” Allan grinned again. It was supposed to be the other way round, for sure, they were supposed to be robbing these damsels and not doing them favours, but he was enjoying the encounter. And if Meg was really Gizzy’s girl now… well, he’d better be nice to her. Friends or not, the memory of Guy’s fists did not need any refreshing.

“I have been staying at the Wanderer’s Rest this past week with my cousin,” Meg continued, “but Eleanor needs to go back to her husband,” Meg could not help smirking at the sudden tragic expression on Allan’s face, “and I cannot leave Nottinghamshire”- _best not to be too specific as to why_ – “but I cannot go back to my father, or stay in town. I wanted to ask you gentlemen” – _a little flattery could never hurt, could it? “_if any of you know of a place, a hamlet nearby, where I could stay unnoticed? I have money to pay for food and lodging,” Meg finished proudly.

“And you would pay to stay in this vicinity?” This was beginning to sound even more certain than Allan had thought. Here she was, this feisty young lady whose cousin was obviously rich and could surely take her under her roof, and yet she was prepared to pay to stay near Nottingham! _And I thought Giz was lousy as a ladies’ man! _

“Well….” he pretended to ponder the options, “I do not know about the villages but we do have a place at our camp…” Allan mused, before turning to snap at Much, who had elbowed him in the side, “What?! She is Gizzy’s friend, and _he_ is staying with us now, so it is only fair that we should let this young lady stay too!”

If Allan had any doubts as to Meg’s motives, they were dispelled by the instant look of delight on her face.

“_And_ I can pay,” she reminded, looking pointedly at Much.

“And where is this camp of yours?” Eleanor interrupted. This was still progressing a bit too fast for her liking.

“We cannot tell you that, my lady,” Much decided to be the voice of caution in the conversation, “I mean we can but not right now, I mean we still need to talk with Master Robin…”

“He means you can come with us if you agree to be blindfolded,” Allan would not give up on a chance to ogle the pretty Lady Eleanor with impunity, “and then you can move in when you are ready. What?!” his retort to Much was nothing short of exasperated. “There is room in Kate’s shack, ain’t there?”

“There are women at your camp, too?” asked Eleanor.

“Just one, Kate,” Much responded, and Eleanor could not help noticing how the faces of both men fell at the mention, “well, there was another one, but she married and stayed with her husband in the Holy Land.” This time it was only Allan who looked sad.

_If women have been living there, maybe it is not all that dangerous._ After all, in the week she had spent in Nottingham she had heard the outlaws described as nothing short of gallant, and hopefully the hotheaded Sir Guy would survive his trip to York to make sure her cousin stayed out of trouble.

***

Five days after the encounter, Eleanor’s carriage pulled up again at dawn at the spot under the oak tree, to be greeted by two familiar faces who helped Meg descend and busied themselves hoisting saddlebags onto the back of the mare – the same one that Meg had lent to Guy and that Much and Allan had now led from the outlaw base. The cousins kissed their goodbyes, Meg was lifted into the saddle, and the small party started on its way toward the camp.

As the carriage rolled away, Eleanor could not help thinking that for all the insanity of it, she would have happily exchanged her pampered and confined life at Pontefract Castle for the perilous freedom that her cousin had chosen and a chance of death-defying love such as hers.

.


	11. Chapter 11

Meg crouched beside the straw-filled bunk that had served Guy as a bed for the night. It was still early morning, and though she had been at the camp for more than an hour, he showed no signs of waking up. The other outlaws had dispersed into the forest after breakfast, Robin and Much going to hunt, John and Tuck making the food run rounds in Clun and Locksley, Kate gone off to the river to do the laundry and a sour-faced Allan sent along with her to fetch water. Meg sat beside the bed, smiling as she remembered Much’s unbeatable admonition as they left: “please my lady, if there is any sign of danger, wake him up!” As it was, she had one more reason besides the obvious for not wanting any danger that morning, for she had just discovered how adorable Guy looked when asleep.

She was badly tempted to run a hand through his hair but checked herself, afraid that he would awake and not wanting the moment to stop. She just sat there watching for she knew not how long –

Until Guy opened his eyes and looked back at her. And gradually, as he realized that the angelic vision before him was not, in fact, a dream, those fine blue eyes went wide in thrilled amazement.

“Meg!”

“Good morning,” she said quietly.

“Meg, you have come back…” _to me_... “here to the forest?!” he sat up in the bunk.

“I am an outlaw, you know, and it is only fitting that I should stay with my own kind,” she replied with a very Guy-like smirk.

_Stay?! She is still delicate. And yet I cannot quite bring myself to tell her to leave now that she is here ... and after my stupid tantrum at her, too._

_“_Meg, I am sorry,” he looked down and shook his head as the memory stung him. “I had no reason to be so rude to you last week. It was really a matter of life and death but I had no time to explain…”

She gently took his wrist as she sat down beside him, making him look up at her again.

“Forget it. I know you had your reasons. Just do not make a habit of it.” Another smirk.

He shook his head again at that.

“Robin told me this morning why you went there, he told me about Archer – ”

Guy had to check himself before answering. What was the point of the best apologies if he were to repeat the same mistake immediately afterwards?

“Robin! Had no business telling you that,” he managed as calmly as he could.

“Archer is his half-brother too, Guy… anyway, I’d rather have heard it from you but you were asleep… and I am sorry too, for trying to dissuade you last week. I was worried for you, and all I cared about was that you stay alive and out of trouble.”

“I am sorry,” he said again and hesitated.

_How many times can he say that? _

_“_…I am not used to… having someone to stay alive for.”

This was too much for Meg. Either she was going to break down crying that very instant, or –

She cupped her hands around his face and drew him to her in a hungry, desperate kiss.

A few moments later, they were kissing still, the first frenzied clash giving way to slow, gentle kisses, little more than brushing their lips, slipping gradually into passionate and forceful ones as Guy drew her to him in a powerful embrace. Meg ran her hands through his hair – _oh so soft_ – and before she knew it she was leaning back in the bunk pulling Guy in with her – _what am I doing? Oh who cares, this feels so incredible_ – when he suddenly sat straight and drew her away, his hands on her arms.

They sat apart on the bunk, breathing heavily and regarding each other with sudden unease.

“Sorry Meg, I cannot…” he shook his head again. _I am way too tempted – who knew that another woman could do that to me?” but I could not possibly seduce you unless we were getting married. And I could not possibly marry you because I have nothing to give you. “_you are still wounded and we are in the middle of an outlaw camp.”

“There is no one else here, Guy.”

But there was.

A woman was standing between them, and she was not even alive.

“It is about _her_ again, about your lady whom you killed.”

_She was never even _my _lady. _Guy shook his head for a hundredth time that morning, looking down in silence.

“Well, I cannot compete with a ghost.” _I never knew I could be jealous of one. I am behaving like a fool. “_If you are never going to let go of her and never look at another woman…” _why am I being so rude to him? And why does it hurt to think about it at all? “_then I will leave you to her company.” She got off the bunk and headed toward the doorway.

“Meg, where are you going?” his voice was tired but the worry was there still.

“For a walk,” she said pointedly before turning around and unconsciously mimicking his gesture and tone from the week before as she pointed a finger at him. “Do not. Follow me.”

And she was gone.

***

Guy was still sitting in his shack when Robin and Much returned with a couple of rabbits. Hood poked his head into the doorway.

“And good morning to you, Gisborne! What, being your usual gloomy self this morning? Where is Meg?”

“She’s gone,” his voice was barely audible.

“Where?” there was alarm in Robin’s voice.

“She did not say.”

_At least the wretch did not harm her. _

_“_She said she was going for a walk, and… told me not to follow.”

_Oh great. The last thing I want in my camp is a lovestruck Gisborne having spats with his sweetheart._

_“_You want me to go look for her?” When Guy shook his head dejectedly, Robin added: “She did not tell _me _not to follow, you know. I can just pretend I ran into her by chance.”

_Why am I offering to help him? Who would have thought this rogue had a way with people? I should have had him in my gang long ago, he could have beaten me at charming jewellery off the rich ladies with his sad bad boy manners!_

_“_I do not trust you around my women, Hood,” Guy said in a tired voice.

“_Your_ women?!” Robin glared daggers at him. Both knew which woman he meant.

“For that matter, I do not trust you around _any _women.”

_Better._

_“_But I would appreciate it if you could… keep an eye on her. I just want her to be safe.”

Despite himself, Robin was impressed.

“Very well… did you at least see which way she went?”

***

With Robin gone and Much busying himself with the pots and cauldrons, Guy sat at the edge of the camp lost in thought, and it was not long before he began to wonder if Marian was indeed the real reason for his unwillingness to let Meg get close to him.

Truth be told, he was completely taken with Meg. But questions of his missing status and lost wealth aside, what was different this time that would not make him capable of ruining one more innocent life, what proof was there that any chance of a life with Meg was not just as dismally doomed as that of a life with Marian? What had it been that had made him yearn so much for a life with Marian, anyway?

When he saw Marian he fell instantly for her beauty, true, and at the outset there had been the added lure of status and standing. But somewhere along the way, he had also become addicted to the constant thrill and challenge of the chase she had provided him precisely _because_ she was always being reckless and playing hard-to-get – as if he almost knew that she was beyond his reach and so coveted her even more desperately in the relentless fear that he could never really have her and was doomed to lose her eventually. And somewhere along that same way, he had built up Marian into a larger-than-life creature, and had let his _idea_ of her overshadow the real person. She was kind, compassionate, and principled, indeed, but she was a real-life woman and as such, often callous and immature – and yes, crafty and manipulative. And as such, probably not a very good match for him, with his intolerance of being lied to. He had ended up telling her a couple of loathsome lies, true, but it was a matter of spectacular bad luck that she could not listen when he had come to her to tell her everything and throw himself at her mercy, and it hurt still to know that he had stooped to telling those lies in his desire to hold her. She, however, had told him lies every day, every moment. With him, she had _lived_ a lie. And they would have never been able to get past that.

But he had never stopped to ponder it before in his desperate need to have someone to take care of and protect, which had far outweighed the need for someone to take care of him. He had not so much wanted to _be_ loved as wanted to _love_, and it had proven his undoing as he had never considered if Marian had the slightest interest in having him. He had only wanted to love her, but in her true heart, Marian would not have accepted his love. And had he secured her for himself, their life together would have been based on lies and coercion because of his obsessive need of her and her quiet resentment of him.

They were never meant to be.

And now he was faced with another dream of love, but one based on reality and truth and trust - and if that morning was anything to go by, one based on passion. He could not deny that he needed her. Not just a woman. Not a resemblance or replacement to Marian. He needed _Meg_, just as she was, bright, feisty, adventurous, unflinchingly loyal, refreshingly honest and surprisingly passionate, and Guy could no longer imagine a life without her.

He only hoped that she needed him still.

***

It was almost evening, and the outlaws had gathered again and were preparing for supper, but Guy was still sitting at the edge of the camp staring into the distance.

Absorbed in his thoughts, he had not heard Robin and Meg come back, and was startled to hear leaves rustling directly behind him.

He turned around to see Meg standing a few feet away, hands clutching at the long sleeves of her dress.

“Guy?” She sounded uncertain and looked painfully fragile. “I am sorry I walked off like that. I had no business snapping at you. I know you love her and all…”

The distance between them suddenly seemed too great, and Guy got up and walked up to her. Not much better; he was a full foot taller than Meg and towered over her. In the end, he sat down at her feet, only to have her follow his example.

“It is all right. You did worry me to death, though... But you were right, about me not letting her go.” _I was never any good at that while she was alive, either. “_I think I am ready to do that, though.”

She smiled at him uncertainly.

“Really? And what makes you think that?”

He returned the smile.

“Well… for one thing, the fact that I have found a lovely lady who makes me forget about pretty much everything.”

She reached out and stroked his cheek. The gesture was intoxicating.

“But _you_ need to think,” he said, holding on to all the self-control he had left.

“Think about what?”

“Meg, I care for you deeply… and it is difficult for me to say it, but think about this: what would life be like for you if we were together? Would you marry me if -…”

“Yes.”

Guy continued, too engrossed in his thought to register what she had said:

“by doing so you would be…” _ stuck with a landless, penniless, condemned wretch_ … Then it hit him.

“What?!”

“I said yes.”

“Meg!” the wild delight in his eyes was a miracle to behold. He grabbed her arms and stared at her. “You would take me for a husband?”

“For the third time, yes.” She could not help smiling, but his expression had turned wistful again.

“Meg, please, do not rush yourself into it, give yourself time,” _oh Lord, why am I saying this? What if she does change her mind? But I must make her see reality_ “don’t you see that I have nothing now? No wealth, no property, no position. I _am_ nothing.”

“Wrong!” she cried as she jumped up and stood facing him. “You are a brave and honest man, courteous, handsome, honourable –”

“I am an outlaw, Meg! Not exactly prime husband material.”

“So am I, a condemned fugitive from justice. That makes two of us!”

“Meg, you are just a girl and I am old enough to be your father! How old are you?”

“A girl!” she scoffed. “I will be seventeen at the end of July!

“And I will be thirty seven in August.”

“So what? My first betrothed was forty eight! You are a babe.”

The battle was over, and there were no losers.

Meg sat back down beside Guy. He put his hands on her shoulders as he turned her to face him, infinite tenderness shining in his face.

“Meg, do you know what you are doing?”

“Not a clue!” she smiled blissfully as she drew him closer for a kiss.

.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On FF.net, this chapter was posted separately (along with Chapter 19) because of a timing glitch. Here I (finally, and not a decade too soon) merge them with the main story.

Neither one had wanted to break away, but eventually they were too breathless to continue. Meg opened her eyes and looked at Guy, their faces inches away from each other, before sinking back against him. He drew an arm around her and with his free hand, took one of hers, holding it to his chest. Neither one spoke for a while, as if afraid to break the spell. Meg wished that the moment would never end. Guy half wished he would die that very instant while he was so impossibly happy, and half prayed that he would live long enough to grow old and die in her arms. Then she stirred against him, and he cocked his head to look at her.

“Meg?”

“What?” her voice sounded dreamy.

“Where did you go today when you left the camp?

She chuckled.

“I did not go far. I had no intention of getting lost,” she smiled as she looked up at him, “but we were both upset and we both needed time to think. At least _I_ did.”

“You are right, we both did,” he kissed the top of her head. “So where were you?”

“I went about a quarter of a mile toward the Nottingham road, until I saw a fallen tree and sat there. And then I thought of maybe going to the river…”

“Meg!”

“What?”

“The river is at least two miles away, what were you thinking?”

“You are talking as if it were twenty miles, Guy.”

“If you went there you _would_ have got lost!”

She laughed softly at his belated concern.

“You do realise that I am back now, do you? In any case, I had barely walked a hundred yards when Robin saw me and we strolled around for a bit and then came back. What were _you_ doing all this time?”

“Not much, really. Sitting.”

“Sitting?”

“Right here.”

Her fingers slipped out of his grasp to wrap themselves around his hand.

“I did not mean to… punish you, you know. I was just… upset.”

“I know. And you did the right thing.” He had needed that time too, to think, to admit the truth he had long been turning away from. “Especially by coming back.” Guy’s mischievous smile lit up his handsome features.

“Oi guys,” Allan’s cheery, deliberately loud voice interrupted their murmured conversation, “are you going to have supper or are you getting all your nourishment from kissing?”

“Will be right there, Allan,” Guy said over his shoulder but made no move to get up.

“ ‘Cos if you’re not, we’ll finish it off and you’ll have to hunt to get food,” Allan grinned before returning to the fire and to the gang seated around it.

“Be right there, I said.” This time Guy’s voice carried a note of urgency, and when Meg looked at his suddenly anxious face as he helped her up, she could not help laughing once she had realised the reason.

“You do know that he was joking about hunting, don’t you, Guy?” she asked, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

“With these people,” Guy sighed, “you never know.”

They approached the others hand in hand, and even though Robin was the only one fully aware of where things stood, their beaming faces were impossible to ignore. As usual, Allan was the first to comment.

“Well, what do you know, here are the lovebirds at last!”

“Allan…” Guy made his best attempt to summon the usual menace to his voice.

“I did not say anything,” Allan retorted mock-defensively. “Well, not anything that ain’t leapin’ to the eye, anyway.”

“Meg and I are betrothed, if you have to know,” Guy made a final attempt at silencing his former lieutenant, “so you can stop your jests.”

The announcement was met with silence, but the glances that accompanied it were neither hostile nor surprised – with the exception of Kate, who pursed her lips and stared at the fire. Yet Guy _was_ surprised when Robin was the next to speak.

“Congratulations, then. Here’s to hoping that you two live happily together.” He drained his ale and looked around, inviting the other men to follow his example.

And, to Guy’s great surprise, they did.

Then again, Meg’s radiant smile had made it impossible to do otherwise.

***

Meg sat just outside the doorway of the shack she shared with Kate, gazing up at the starlit sky beyond the treetops. She had always liked looking at the stars, but had never seen them so late at night, and from the middle of the forest – they seemed bigger and brighter now that the sky was at its deepest midnight blue and there was darkness all around. She almost wanted to go to Tuck’s hut and call out for Guy, who was sharing it, to join her – but stopped herself. Guy was still tired from their York adventure, and even though he had done his best not to show it, his face was beginning to look haggard as they sat around the fire after supper. Yet his eyes lit up again when he bade her good night with a gentle kiss on the cheek and wished her sweet dreams. But as much as she might be willing to humour Guy, dreams, sweet or otherwise, were about the furthest thing from her mind. And as the memories of the day played out before her mind’s eye, Meg realised that she was no longer interested in stargazing that night.

***

She woke up late and had to shield her eyes from the bright sunlight when she walked out of the shack. Unlike the day before when the camp had been almost deserted for most of the morning, this time there was a buzz of activity. Robin and Allan were the only ones gone, hunting for the daily supper, but the others were around, going about the minor fixing and cleaning chores that kept the camp habitable. Much and John greeted Meg with friendly smiles and Tuck gave her a blessing, but Kate barely acknowledged her with a curt nod.

“Have any of you seen Guy?” Meg asked after quickly breaking her fast on a piece of bread and an apple. She had not seen him since she woke up, but thought that perhaps he was still asleep as well.

At that moment, Kate’s patience seemed to have snapped.

“How can you care about that man?!” she turned to Meg with sudden blind anger in her face. “How can you want to marry him when he is a murderer?”

“Robin has killed as well,” Meg answered calmly, “and yet both you and I respect him still.”

“He killed my brother!” Kate screamed.

“I know that Guy has committed crimes,” Meg countered in a firm voice, “but if you knew him any better” – _if you knew him half as well as I know him now _– “you would know that he repents them.” Meg had seen the distraught look on Guy’s face at the mention of past wrongdoings and knew that it was true.

Kate said nothing, measuring her with a cold stare. As if to say, “believe it if you want to”.

Meanwhile, Much came to Meg’s rescue.

“My lady…” He still used the formal address, the same as he had used for Marian, despite Meg having all but become a full-fledged outlaw. “I have seen Gis- Sir Guy this morning and I think he was going to the river. I think he mentioned something about going for a swim.”

“Thank you, Much.” Meg was grateful both for the information and for the welcome distraction from Kate’s diatribe. “When was it that you saw him?”

“I would say, an hour or so ago. He should be back soon, I suppose.”

“Which direction is it? I think I will go out to meet him.”

Much hesitated.

“I am not sure if… it would be a good idea, my lady. He mentioned before he left… he asked us not to let you out of our sight, my lady.” Much did his best to sound apologetic, but Meg had an idea.

“What if you go with me?” she tried her most winning smile on Much.” That way I can still go and you won’t have let me out of your sight for an instant.”

Much looked over at the others, and after seeing a wink from John and a nod of approval from Tuck, turned back to Meg obviously more convinced.

“Very well, my lady. When will you be ready to leave?”

“I _am_ ready.”

***

They had barely gone halfway – or so Much had said – along the dried stream that ran to the river when they saw Guy walking toward them. Meg smiled happily at seeing him but tried to dismiss the momentary flash of disappointment, not wanting to think why she had been hoping to make it to the river while he was still there – _so that we would walk back all the way together_, she told herself. Guy looked slightly preoccupied when he spotted them, but upon seeing that Meg was obviously unhurt and seemingly happy, his face relaxed.

“Good morning, my lady. Good morning, Much,” he almost smiled as Much’s eyes went wide at the unexpected courtesy. “What brings you out here?”

“You do,” Meg answered smoothly. “Well, I should say _I_ do, being that I wanted to come and meet you and I asked Much to come along. How was the river?”

“Very good.” he still looked surprised at the notion that Meg would take such an interest in his whereabouts. “Very good indeed.”

“Sir Guy,” Much spoke as if he had suddenly remembered something, “I… think I will go to the river myself. I have been thinking I wanted to bathe… if you don’t mind, my lady,” he looked at Meg hopefully.

Both Guy and Meg chuckled at his excuse which, for all its awkwardness, had lost none of the consideration.

“Of course we don’t mind, Much,” said Meg, taking Guy’s hand, “enjoy yourself! My lord?” she turned back to Guy with a wink.” Shall we?”

***

“So tell me,” she said when they had walked for a few yards. “What happened in York? What did you and Robin do?”

“You know already,” Guy sounded almost surprised. “Robin told you, didn’t he?”

“He only told me that you shared a half-brother, that you found it out a few days ago, and that you helped him escape from the dungeon before he rode away. That is all. We did not have that much of a long talk. And besides,” she glanced at Guy again, “I told you that I wanted to hear it from _you_.”

“Really?” Guy looked back at her with his typical smirk. “Very well, I will tell you.”

As he recounted to Meg the eventful tale of their daring adventure in York, the ruse that got him into the dungeon, the mad race through the castle and the narrow escape from an intended execution – omitting the part where he was nearly hanged in the process – she looked alternately excited and frightened and relieved, as if the story were not merely a past matter. But by the time Guy had finished, and had said in conclusion that their brother had left them with barely a word, she looked sad.

“Maybe he was not sure if he could trust you,” she said eventually. “I still think he did the wrong thing, but maybe he felt safer on his own…” Meg herself sounded less than convinced.

“Yes, so he was going to work for Isabella after _we_ had got him out,” Guy laughed bitterly. “Whatever his reasons, the best I can hope for – for all of us – is to never see him again. Better no family at all than a family of backstabbing hypocrites.”

“We do not know for sure that he will work for Isabella,” Meg said quietly, shaken by the pain in Guy’s voice, “you may be right, but give it just a little more time to see where things go.”

Guy sighed. With his sister’s ambitions growing more exorbitant every day, things seemed firmly headed toward trouble. But he did not want to dwell on that while he still had a few precious moments – hours? days? – left to spend with Meg in the happy illusion that all could be well with the world.

“We’ll see.”

***

They did not see much of each other for the rest of the day – or rather, they did, but had to resort to casting glances from a distance as Guy offered John to help sharpen the swords and set the munitions in order and Meg offered to help with mending tattered clothes – “we must earn our keep”, she had joked to John, in reality glad to be doing something that kept her away from Kate, who had busied herself with furiously cleaning cooking pots. So while Meg and Guy hardly left each other out of their sight, they did not speak again almost until supper.

Meanwhile, it looked as if things were heating up in Nottingham. Robin and Allan came back late with a nice fat hare, but their faces were gloomy as they recounted their failure to intercept a courier - from Prince John, judging by the flash of livery they saw before the man disappeared into the city gate – which could only mean that Isabella was still scheming, and likely planning something big in her pretender patron’s support. They agreed to keep watch along both roads leading from Nottingham through the forest early the next morning – no courier would venture into Sherwood forest at dusk - to catch whoever Isabella would send back with a reply.

With the meal over and the plans for the next day made, the mood relaxed somewhat, and the outlaws stayed around the fire bantering until Robin got up and bade everyone good night. Whether by coincidence or design, Kate started yawning profusely and soon retired as well. The others stayed for a while longer until John and Tuck likewise headed for bed, and Much followed soon afterwards. Allan stretched lazily before getting up and turning to look at Guy and Meg with a wink.

“I’d love to stay here and chat with you lot, but I fear that you sweethearts will not appreciate my eloquence. Good night to you both, and see you on the morn!”

“Allan…” Guy began, with the closest approximation of a threatening tone that he could manage while trying not to smile.

“Good night to you too, Allan,” Meg said lightly. “Sleep well!”

Allan smirked back at them and wandered off into the darkness, leaving Guy and Meg alone by the fire.

“I never thought that living in Sherwood forest could be so pleasant,” Meg said, sidling up to Guy to rest her hands on his shoulder before he put an arm around her waist to bring her closer.

“Trust me, it is not always so,” he chuckled. “I have done it before.”

“You?!” she sat up, looking at his face in amazement, quickly turning to confusion at seeing the pain in his eyes. “Why?”

Guy closed his eyes and was silent for a few moments.

“I told you that my parents died when I was your age,” he said finally. “We lived near here, my father held land that was later added to the Locksley estate.”

Meg inhaled sharply but forced herself to stay silent.

“He was away at the Crusades and presumed dead, and my mother… was going to marry Robin’s father thinking that she was a widow. Archer is their child, as I suppose Robin told you.”

Meg nodded quietly.

“When my father came back it was eventually discovered that he had contracted leprosy, and he was exiled, but… one day he came back to the manor,” Guy could not, not _yet _at least, force himself to recount what had led to the altercation, “and Lord Locksley came to confront him. I argued with him and… we fought over a lit torch that started the fire, but I could not stop him from going upstairs… My parents… died in that fire. Locksley was thought to have died too, but he survived and… went away for many years. He is dying now anyway. But after that fire we lost the land, and Robin became the new lord.”

“Robin?!” She should have figured it out, really, but Meg was still shocked at the mention of the other man’s name.

“He is Locksley’s son, so he inherited his father’s lands. And ours, as they had been granted to my father and I was not of age yet. He had guardians, you see, who handled these matters for him…” Guy tried to keep the rancor from his voice. “In any case, Isabella and I left but we had nowhere to go, so we lived in this forest for months… and I am telling you, it was not pleasant in the least.” He gave a bitter laugh.

“This is… terrible,” Meg said eventually, “and completely unfair.” She had always wondered why Guy had chased Robin with such determination, and finally understood. “What did you do next?”

“We wanted to go to France to look for family but we had no money so we found work… as servants and such,” Guy was talking through clenched teeth now. “We made it to Portsmouth but… Isabella was always… doing things behind my back, playing with danger and thinking she could get away with it. I tried to stop her, to protect her… but I could not handle her. We met Thornton in Portsmouth and he… offered to marry her. I did not want to let him at first but then… I agreed.”

Meg said nothing. She had seen Thornton to be a cold, cruel man, but it was obvious that Guy had had his reasons for the reluctantly-struck bargain.

“Do you really have family in France?” she asked instead.

“Not really, I am afraid. I went there, but found only distant relatives, no real family… It is a beautiful country, though. I liked it there.”

“I’d like to see it.” Meg smiled. “Will you take me?”

_Nothing I would want more_, Guy thought. _If only I live to do it_.

“I would like to. I will, if we have that chance.”

“Thank you.”

They sat in silence until the fire had gone out.

“Come on, you need to sleep,” Guy said eventually. “Everyone will be up early and they will wake you up in any event.” He got up and helped Meg to her feet.

She would rather stay by the fireside than go to Kate’s shack, but Meg realised that Guy himself needed to be up early for their watch for Isabella’s courier.

He walked her to the cabin and stopped just outside, holding her hand and smiling at her in the darkness.

“Good night, ma chère,” he whispered before kissing her lightly on the lips.

Meg held on to his arm, reluctant to let him go, before eventually giving up. Guy smiled at her again before turning toward Tuck’s hut.

_Good night, my love_, she thought as she smiled back at him.

.


	13. Chapter 13

Kate was the first casualty of the siege. From her vantage point in the church bell tower, Meg watched the other girl scream and lurch forward as she leapt in front of Allan's crumpled body upon seeing Vasey casually gesture to the soldier at his side to aim his crossbow for the killing shot. The arrow had been meant for Allan: gravely wounded by Vasey's troops in the forest, he had somehow evaded pursuit in the thicket and had crawled to the city gate just as the gang - the soon-to-be leaders of Nottingham’s defence - had reached it to be greeted by the chilling sight of Vasey's army advancing on the city, and now he lay gasping, "Vasey is here", not seeing that his warning had arrived too late. Vasey's lips curled in morbid glee as he signalled for the shot, hoping to finish off the contemptible outlaw in view of his worthless comrades, but Kate had rushed impulsively to shield Allan from the arrow, and had instead taken it full in her chest. In the commotion that followed, both Allan and Kate were carried inside the city walls and set down for Tuck to examine their wounds and try to staunch the bleeding before more could be done - but for Kate, it had been too late. And then someone - _Guy_ \- was shouting for the gate to be closed, and Meg peered down into the street, her eyes seeking him in the confusion without success.

She had arrived in Nottingham only that morning. On the third day of her stay in the forest, the gang had intercepted a letter from Prince John to Guy's treacherous sister demanding reinforcements, and Guy had come up with the audacious plan to use the secret tunnel he had ordered built for Vasey to infiltrate the castle. Knowing that they would likely need help fighting Isabella's guards once inside the fortress, Guy had thought it best to go into town first and pay the more trustworthy of his former men - deeply paranoid, Isabella had dismissed most of them even though she desperately needed soldiers, and they were now whiling away their time and remaining coins in the city taverns - to go to the castle and fight their way in before the portcullis was dropped if a struggle broke out in the courtyard. He would not tell the men how he and Robin were getting in, but gave an order to post a spy at the castle gate, disguised as a beggar and carrying a sizeable bell concealed among the rags in his shoulder bag, to literally sound an alarm summoning the others.

Meg had accompanied him there in an uneasy compromise following a somewhat tense exchange. From the outset of the plan, after Robin's gang had come back from Locksley with the freed men and Guy had brought up the matter of the tunnel, he had wanted to get Meg away from the forest knowing that there might well be troops looking for the fugitives there. He had wanted to take her to Kirklees, but Meg had repeatedly tried to dissuade him. She was deeply grateful to the nuns for saving her life, and would be happy to see them again, but suspected that if she went there now, she would end up staying longer than expected, and possibly longer than needed, between their concern for her health and well-being and Guy's tendency to be over-protective. So she had asked him to take her to his riverside shelter instead, and when that had met with steely opposition, grudgingly agreed to accompany him into Nottingham, to remain there with one of Guy's old guards watching her, until their castle raid was over.

Meg would have preferred to avoid Nottingham for fear that it could bring her within her father's reach - a wealthy freeholder yeoman, he had land and a large house nearby and was often in the city - but Guy had argued that it would only be for a few hours, and Meg had given in, promising to wait for him in Nottingham until the conclusion of their enterprise that day.

And now it looked like she was about to witness the siege of Nottingham from the wrong side of the walls.

Guy, knowing at the back of his mind that she was somewhere in the city still, cursed himself endlessly for his foolish idea. And Meg, having escaped from her bodyguard and now watching secretly from the belfry as hell broke loose inside and outside the city, wondered if, and when, and how she would get to see Guy again.

Presently, she did.

They were riding out of the gates toward Vasey's army. As Meg watched in horror-struck amazement, two riders - Guy and Robin - spurred their horses as they left the city side by side to face the enemy. It was a beautiful sight, the graceful riders steering their mounts in the golden afternoon light as if on parade... if one could ignore _where_ they were going. And at that wretched moment, even as she clenched her fists repeatedly and whispered how she hated him, she loved him more than ever.

Time seemed to have stopped. Meg watched as if in slow motion as they approached Vasey, wishing she could hear what was being said. And then they were turning back toward the town, and her heart twisted in agony as she thought that Vasey would now get the entertainment that he had been denied with Allan at their expense.

But nothing happened. As they neared the gate, the heavy wooden door swung to let them in. There was nothing left to see from the tower; Meg hoped to find Guy and manage to stay where she could at least easily reach him, if not by his side. She carefully made her way down the narrow stairwell and emerged from the church –

Just as a gigantic fireball exploded in the square ahead.

***

Guy and Robin galloped out of the square, leaving Tuck and John to deal with Allan, Isabella, and Kate’s body, yelling at the gate guards to raise the alarm, and calling all able men to the armoury as they charged through the streets. Once they had reached the armoury, they reasoned their way in past the guards, who presently joined them, and did a hurried inventory of the weapons and munitions before Robin rode on to raise volunteers in the city, leaving Guy to deal with the troops. They desperately needed time, but in its absence, they needed a quick and relatively easy way to slow down, if not stop, the enemy attack. There was plenty of steel in the armoury, but it was mostly of the kind used for close combat – swords, lances, and pikes – and with the advantage of range that the trebuchets had, these were not much use. Guy ordered the guards to gather all the bows and crossbows they could find, bring all the arrows they had in store, and roll out barrels of pitch from inside the barbican that had been kept there as a last-ditch defense measure if the castle itself was ever attacked, to be loaded on carts and hoisted up the city walls together with clay pots requisitioned from the market stalls to share the supply of pitch. He also charged two boys with tearing Vasey’s standards that lay heaped in the armoury corner into narrow strips to tie to the arrows to be dipped in pitch, called for all the off-duty guards to be brought in from the barracks, and sent a messenger to summon his own former troops – an unnecessary measure, it turned out, as they arrived at the armoury doors moments after the messenger departed, just before volunteers started gathering from the city. Robin, having completed his rounds, rejoined them there.

They ordered the men to arm themselves with bows and arrows – thanks to Robin’s alarm, some had come carrying their own hunting bows – and sent their impromptu troops to the city walls, hastily instructing the less experienced men in the basics of defensive tactics, to shoot burning arrows dipped in pitch as far away from the walls as they could reach, forming a circle of fire around the city.

The desperate measure was the only way to quickly stall the assault – and _quickly_ was of the essence considering that in the meantime, the firebombs kept raining down on Nottingham, causing death and chaos as they exploded in a burning inferno upon impact. The wheel-mounted trebuchets advanced on city walls as they continued the bombardment, narrowing the range and subjecting new parts of town to their destructive power.

Fortunately for the defenders, they had an unexpected advantage. That year’s rainy winter and spring had been followed by a severely dry summer, with a downright draught starting from the end of May, and by then the grass that had grown so lush and tall in the spring months was dry as tinder. The flaming arrows shot into its midst instantly brought forth roaring flames and billowing smoke, and the mercenaries, knowing too well the danger to themselves, halted their attack engines before they could advance, unable to take them past the fire for fear that their highly flammable and unstable munitions would spell their own death. Three or four machines that had been surrounded by flames as a result of this counterattack, thanks to the quick wits and good marksmanship of the defenders, were abandoned by their crews and exploded in huge clouds of smoke and fire, spewing the burning liquid, making it even harder to continue the assault, as the defenders paused to catch their breath while boys and women set frantically to work replenishing the stores of arrows and digging for sand in back yards to douse the fires in the city. Meanwhile, the attackers had no way to extinguish the flames in the grass as the drought had emptied the local bogs and creeks. Nottingham was built on essentially dry ground, relying on a couple of springs and several wells for its water supply – and whatever was not diverted into the enormous castle cisterns and promptly used, was directed by an underground chute into the forest.

So far, so good.

Presently, Guy and Robin were joined in the armoury by Archer, who had been directing the defenders at the walls adjacent to the main gate, and had now used the lull to get away.

“Brothers,” he announced as both Robin and Guy looked up at the unexpected address, “I have news for you.” When they had stepped away to a corner, he continued:

“The good news is, there are a lot of munitions in the castle.”

“How do you know?” Guy’s half-brother was not exactly inspiring his confidence of late.

“I brought them there.” To Robin and Guy’s shocked stares, he continued: “I made a deal with Isabella. Well, I _wanted_ to make a deal, she being my sister and all, and needing weapons, and me needing money,” he continued in a hurry, seeing as the other two skewered him with furious glances, “and they are still there, even though I do not think I am getting paid for them.”

“And the bad news?” Guy insisted.

“We may have difficulty using them for defence.”

_Great. We are sitting on top of an explosive arsenal that cannot be turned into weapons_. Guy winced. This would be great for destroying the castle, if they were attackers or saboteurs. But their goal was to protect Nottingham. _Still, munitions are munitions, and where there is a will, there is a way._

“You’d better show us,” Robin prompted in the meantime.

Guy gave hasty instructions to the captain of the watch at the armoury, and the three of them set off for the castle steps.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went along with the show’s (incorrect) premise that black powder was somehow brought to Europe before the 13th century.


	14. Chapter 14

In the turmoil that had followed the first fireball explosion, Meg could only hope to escape with her life. Amid the screams and flames and smoke, there was no chance to see anything clearly, and when the flames started to die down, the two riders and Robin's gang were gone.

After a few minutes of frantic running – it did not matter where so long as she was getting away from the fiery mayhem - Meg ducked into an alley, away from the chaos, trying to catch her breath. For the first time since she had snuck away from poor Thomson in the market square, she was sorry not to have her bodyguard with her. It had been a silly whim she had followed for an innocent reason: she had wanted to browse through the silversmith’s shop without the man trailing her, and meant to seek him out again in the market in a short while. But, just as she was coming out of the silversmith’s, a shrill cry from the direction of the gate announced the arrival of the besieging mercenaries, and the city plunged into hysterical madness. With all intention, there was hardly a chance of finding Thomson after that. Instead, she had headed for the belfry.

Now, she gathered her thoughts. It seemed reasonable to assume, since she had seen both Robin and Guy riding free, that their plan to break into the castle had succeeded, even though she had had no first-hand knowledge of that since part of Guy’s instructions to Thomson had been to keep her as far away from the castle as possible, and for as long in the market as she might be tempted to remain, for fear that she might otherwise get it into her head to get involved in the raid. What was more, she had seen a glimpse of Isabella being dragged in the street by Little John and thus knew that Isabella no longer controlled the castle – and it would only follow that, faced with a siege, in need of weapons and munitions and not impeded by the Sheriff, the gang would head where the weapons were stored and where men could easily be gathered. The armoury.

But when Meg had made it to the long stone building, just as she tried to find her way past the crowd milling outside waiting for their bows to be fixed or replacement arrows to be handed out, a familiar name in a conversation caught her ear: two men, talking as they walked away.

“He said Robin and a couple of his men have gone to the castle map room to look for something the Sheriff kept there,” she heard one say. “They’d better figure out a way to stop these hellhounds before we are all fried,” replied the other.

_Robin. Either Guy is there too _ _–_ _ he knows the castle best after all - or Robin would know where to find him. _

She wove her way back through the crowded square and into the courtyard, only to be confronted by an armed guard at the top of the castle stairs. It looked like Robin was not taking any chances on spies or saboteurs getting to whatever was inside.

“Where do you think you are going, miss?” the man questioned, convinced that she was mistaken in her destination.

“I am here to see Sir Guy of Gisborne,” she said, drawing herself up to her full height – still not that impressive considering that the guard was a good ten inches taller. It was a bet; maybe Guy was not even there. But she could always try asking for Robin next.

“And you would be?” the soldier regarded her with suspicion. What was this slip of a girl doing demanding to see one of the few men leading the defence? Being one of Guy’s cohort of guards, he had been dismissed from the castle by the time of Meg's trial and would-be execution and had no idea who she was.

Meg considered her answer. She could just say that her name was Meg, but she doubted if that would get her very far past the entryway. “Meg” would work miracles on Guy’s ears but would do nothing to impress the guard she was talking to.

“My name is Lady Margaret Linby and I have news for Lord Gisborne.” She had decided to use her real name but gave herself a title in the process. If she was a _Lady_, maybe the guard would show her more respect. The part about the news was not exactly true, but then again, this could well be her only chance to get in.

“Very well, wait here, my lady,” the guard grumbled, and motioning to a companion, called out, “Relieve me for an instant here, Matthews.”

Robin, Tuck, Archer, and Guy had recently reached the map room and were surveying their deadly treasure trove, when the guard entered.

“There is a Lady Margaret Linby here to see Sir Guy,” he announced. “She says she has news for you, my lord,” he added apologetically.

Guy stared at him blankly for a moment. Who the hell was Lady Margaret Linby? Oh, well...

“Let her in.”

“You?!” Guy inhaled sharply as Meg walked into the room a few moments later, surprise mingling with relief in his eyes. She seemed unperturbed by the siege and looked imposing enough to be a royal, not just a mere lady, in a tailored and delicately embroidered _bliaut_ of dark blue velvet. Unaware of the imminent danger, that morning she had spent some of the money Eleanor had left her in the tailor’s shop, and had been wearing the dress since. She was, after all, going to see Guy later that day, and had wanted to impress him.

The others looked up at the new arrival, Robin and Tuck smiling, Archer ogling her with interest.

“Who _is_ this lady?” asked Archer, who had never seen Meg before.

“None of your business,” Guy growled. “Your future sister-in-law,” he then added pointedly. “My lady, where is your guard?” This was directed at Meg, who had walked up to the table and had offered her hand for a kiss.

“I lost him,” she said, doing her best to look contrite. “Or maybe _he_ lost _me_.”

Guy rolled his eyes. Was he destined to fall for women with a taste for adventure?

“Wait!” he snapped at the guard, who had made to leave. “Take _Her Ladyship_ to the Trip Inn, and tell Swinton, the owner, that she is to have the best room there, or else he’ll deal with _me_. I will see you there, my lady,” he added in a softer voice, turning to Meg again, “in a while.”

***

“No,” Archer said flatly.

“This could work… but it is suicide,” Robin's voice was a mixture of irritation and excitement.

_He is ticked that _he_ has not thought of this first_, Guy mused sourly.

“Listen, both of you, I am not asking you to join me. I am only asking that you let me do it.”

“But you need good riders.” Robin was getting practical.

“I do.”

“And the success of this plan depends on it.”

“So?”

“And most of the men you can take are no match for either of us.” Robin gestured to himself and Archer, who seemed surprised that the matter was still being discussed, but did not object.

“I will take my guards. They are good enough.”

“None of them are one tenth as good as I.” Robin's voice was goading.

Guy knew what Robin was doing; now that the man had made up his mind, he was teasing Guy into accepting his help instead of openly offering it - but this was no time to be picky about manners.

“I could use you if you are up for it,” he smirked.

They had gone through all the arguments already; ever since they had arrived in the map room to find it packed halfway up to the roof with barrels of black powder, sulfur, and sacks of limestone, they had been seething with frustration at having so much destructive potential at their fingertips - without the adequate means of delivery. All this could be invaluable if they had the machinery to deploy using these ingredients for weapons, but they had neither time nor easily available means or skilled enough men to build a trebuchet, leave alone several. These substances could also come in handy at close range, but by the time the attackers got close enough to the city walls to use them, the city would have been burned to cinders by their Byzantine fire missiles.

For that was what it was, Byzantine fire, as identified by Archer, a hellish substance that was highly flammable, burst into flames upon impact, and was not extinguishable with water. Archer’s insight had already helped when he directed the residents to dig up sand in order to quench the fires the firebombs had started instead of wasting water on them, but even his knowledge about making and using the substance was useless without a working trebuchet or siphon.

For the time being, they were at a standstill with Vasey's mercenary troops as the burning grass kept their machines beyond range, but burning grass was not forever; sooner or later the ring of fire would shrink and the ground would cool enough to admit the mercenaries once again within firing distance of Nottingham.

If they were lucky, the standstill would last until the morning. Which meant that the night was their only chance of counterattack.

Which was why Guy had come up with the plan.

It was suicidal, for sure. But they were precious short on non-suicidal options.

***

The day had wound to a close. Vasey’s mercenaries had retreated to the edges of the forest, dragging their trebuchets with them away from the burning grass – the defenders had diligently continued their incendiary barrage, using the time they had gained to shoot more crossbow rounds further away from the city – and the fires within the walls had been finally put out.

Now, with most townsfolk, led by Little John, hiding in the hastily-emptied water cisterns that extended underground far beyond the castle and almost into the forest, the volunteers quartered in the barracks and the armoury, and the night watch guards posted, there was nothing left to do but wait. Guy and Robin had found themselves alone on the castle steps.

“Well, here we are, just like old times, just you and I,” Robin quipped, but his voice was hollow.

_Just you and I_, Guy pondered. No, it had never been like that. There had always been someone, or something, standing between them.

Their parents’ affair. Locksley. King Richard. Marian.

There was always someone or something that they had been fighting over.

But now that there was no reason left to fight each other, both realized that they were not that different after all.

Of course, Guy would never stop thinking of Robin as a cheeky braggart, and Robin would never stop condemning Guy as a violent bully, but the hatred, that all-consuming hatred that had threatened to destroy them, was gone.

Robin sat down on the steps, his head hung low as he twirled a silver chain in his hand. _Kate__’__s necklace_, Guy remembered, he had seen her wearing it at the camp.

“Listen… for what it’s worth, I am sorry about Kate dying. And I am…” he stopped, unable to say it.

_Sorry about Marian?_ What could he possibly say? _Sorry I killed her, mate?_ _Sorry I destroyed her life and ruined both of ours in the process?_

But Robin had understood.

“There are worse things than death.”

_Tell me about it. _

_“_And while we are on this happy subject, we need to be sure to give them hell tonight, or else we’ll never get out of here alive and will never get the chance to kill each other afterwards.” Despite his statement to the contrary, Robin had in fact shifted the subject away from past nightmares to the present. _And if we die here, you, angry boy, will never marry that poor besotted girl of yours._

Guy knew the “killing each other” part to be a joke, but it still did not sit right.

“I’ve done enough killing already,” he said quietly.

“Haven’t we all, Gisborne, haven’t we all.” Coming to think of it, Robin’s own list of kills on and off the battlefield – mostly Saracens and guilty blackguards, but not only – could probably rival Guy’s. “Well, I am off to bed,” he stood up and slapped Guy on the shoulder. “Get some rest.”

“See you here at the matins.”

Guy walked back to the Trip Inn – the seedy inn would have never been his choice of bed and board under normal circumstances, but the Wanderer’s Rest was too close to the city walls to risk staying there – still confused as to how it could possibly have happened that he and Hood had all but forgiven each other.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I knew back then that Meg's canon last name was Bennett, but the accidental(?) Jane Austen allusion (as in, Pride and Prejudice's Lizzy Bennett) messed with my head too much so I picked a different name for her. Linby is an actual village near/suburb of Nottingham. It was one of the nicer-sounding names on the map (how about Plumtree or Bunny instead?).


	15. Chapter 15

Guy arrived at the chamber at the Trip Inn to find the door locked, and the room behind it dark. If the innkeeper was to be believed, Meg should be inside it. Which would mean that she was asleep.

Reluctant to wake her, Guy stepped back to the stairway landing and opened the narrow latched window that gave onto a ledge created by the porch underneath it. From there, the chamber window was a few careful steps along the ledge, and a moment later he had pried open the shutters and let himself into the room.

_I am getting used to this outlaw thing_, he mused.

Meg was safely on the bed – as safely as could be, considering that they were in a besieged city – and indeed, asleep. She had not reacted to Guy climbing into the room, but sighed and stretched her hand lazily when he sat down on the bed, even though he had tried not to disturb her.

“Guy?”

“Yes. Go back to sleep.” He stroked her hand and tried to pull up her bedcover.

But there was no stopping her from waking up now. These could very well be the last hours they shared, and she was not going to waste them on sleep if she could help it.

“I am not sleepy,” she protested, stifling a yawn.

“You contradict yourself, Lady Margaret…” He smiled, remembering Meg’s grand manners of earlier that evening. “is it Wilby?” He gathered her up to him so that she lay in his arms, her head resting on his chest.

“Linby.”

“Forgive me. Heaven permitting, you should be Lady Margaret of Gisborne in a few weeks’ time.” _If we make it out of here. _Fate had not been lenient to them; they had barely avoided execution, and Meg had barely survived a wound, and Guy had barely escaped a hanging, and now they were being put to the test again.

He remembered something.

“Linby… isn’t there a freeholding northwest of Nottingham by that name? Is Yeoman Linby your father?”

“He is.”

“Meg, I know you believe he is a danger to you, but maybe you should think about letting him know somehow that you are alive.” from his own bitter regrets, Guy knew too well that a second chance of reconciliation with one’s parents was often an unattainable dream.

“Do not worry about him, Guy, he really does not care. He always wanted a son anyway.” She sounded sulky.

“Fool.” Nothing wrong about wanting a son, but in this particular case, Guy could not disagree more.

They sat in silence for a while before Guy spoke again.

“I am sorry, my dear, for getting you into this. I thought you would be safer here in Nottingham, and here I was, leading you into danger.” he held her tighter as he pressed his lips against the top of her head.

“Do not apologize, Guy. There is nowhere else I’d rather be.” _And if I had been outside while he was within the walls under siege, I would have probably _tried_ to get in. “_You are putting yourself in more danger than I am in, anyway. I was so afraid when I saw you ride out with Robin to speak to Vasey. I thought he was going to shoot you in the back.”

“He would not do such a thing.” to Meg’s incredulous stare, he replied: “Not out of magnanimity, of course. I know he tried to finish off Allan in front of us, but he would not want either Robin or me killed in plain view in a way that would make us heroes.” _well, make _me_ a hero anyway. Robin is one already_. Vasey liked his spectacle, but he was too cunning to allow his victims any vestiges of decency. If he could not make their public death degrading, he would opt for a private execution. Preceded, if at all possible, by a torture session. “I know the fiend, I worked for him for fifteen years,” he finished reluctantly.

“It must have been terrible.”

Guy hesitated before answering. The worst thing was, it did not always _seem_ terrible, though it _should _have.

Vasey had won Guy’s life at a cards game as if it were a trinket. But somewhere along the way, as Guy advanced in Vasey’s household, he had come to regard his life belonging to Vasey in a different light. Perhaps it had been a way to delude himself away from the dismal reality; he had stopped thinking of belonging _to_ Vasey in the literal, horrible and degrading sense of the word, and had convinced himself that he truly belonged there, _with_ Vasey – with his devious schemes, his iron rule, and his constant preaching about strength that had found such a ready listener and eager disciple in Guy – he had not stopped to wonder how much of it was purposefully spewed by Vasey as a means to an end, because he, Guy, had wanted to hear it, and because it made it ridiculously easy for him to get Guy to do whatever he had wanted him to. _Come on, my boy, you do not want them to think you weak_, Guy remembered the reproachful, vaguely contemptuous tone, and he had been ready to go against his best instincts, or whatever had remained of them, to prove himself. _Imbecile._

“I managed,” he said finally, before noticing that Meg had fallen asleep again in his arms.

He held her gently as he stroked her hair, his fragile treasure, his redeeming angel, praying that she would survive all this, that he would be able to keep her safe. He still did not care much if he lived or died himself, but knew that he needed to stay alive as long as it would take to get her out of danger.

As he sat on the bed in the dark room, Guy could not help thinking back to the last time he had been under siege in Nottingham. There were strange echoes about it – he was again working with Hood, and again fearful for a woman he loved who was there with him. But this time it was his former superior he was fighting against.

And he, Guy of Gisborne, was doing his best to hold the city in the name of a king he had tried to kill.

_Oh, the irony._

An hour later, as the church bells tolled the matin hour, Guy carefully set Meg back down on the bed - she was fast asleep and never stirred – and slipped out of the window to make his way back to the castle.

***

They assembled on the castle steps, the devil’s-dozen party of the night foray, and listened as Guy and Robin, their leaders, gave them final instructions. Archer, Tuck, Much, and ten of Guy’s guards, readying themselves for certain death even as they were hoping for an uncertain victory. Talking John into staying with the townsfolk had proved a challenge, but his tremendous strength did not make up for lack of stealth and prowess in the saddle, both qualities being of the utmost importance at that desperate hour.

They made their way through the cisterns and in the dim light of the oil lamps they were carrying, Guy made out the crowd of people huddled together, their faces tired and worried but almost hopeful as they said their blessings for the departing warriors. Guy could not help his customary smirk but was proud in spite of himself: he, the hated bully, was now one of their would-be saviours! _If the plan works, that is_.

The men arrived at the patched-up section of the cistern wall that had been breached before – Guy had had it walled up again after the incident with Isabella and Prince John, but knew the wall to be thin – and set out to carefully, as quietly as they could, chipping away at the mortar holding the stones together. Blasting the wall away with black powder would have been a good deal faster, but if there were mercenary guards posted in the forest outside the onetime cistern drain hole – and knowing Vasey’s familiarity with castle structures, Guy was sure of that – the element of surprise their plan depended on would be gone in an instant.

At last the mortar gave way. They covered up the lamps, and with John’s help, managed to roll the stones back into the cistern away from the breach. One by one, they climbed out from the pitch darkness of the cistern into the moonlit night.

Guy saw the two guards at once – it was impossible not to, as the fools had lit a fire and were sitting by the fireside drinking ale from skins – and was pleased to see two horses tied nearby. A few moments later, the guards slumped on the ground, Robin’s arrows sticking out of their chests – Guy had to admit the man was good – and the party split up and dispersed as they stole toward the edge of the forest, leaving one of their own guards with the horses so that he could bring them over when the moment arrived.

They circled far behind the enemy lines, seven pairs, carrying concealed oil lamps and heavy sacks on their backs full of deadly cargo. The mercenaries had been too distracted with the crackling flames of the grass fire still screening Nottingham from them, and too preoccupied about keeping the trebuchets away from that, to notice the shadowy figures creeping up on them until the night exploded in screams and fire.

It worked almost perfectly, one man of each pair finding and stealing a horse or two while the other snuck up to the trebuchet and put satchels of sulphur and black powder on top of its store of munitions – these were kept ready at the base of each machine so as to make it able to resume the attack whenever it was safe to advance on the city again – and lit a fuse dipped in pitch using the oil lamps they were carrying, before seeking out his fellow by the sound of the horses whinnying, and before both made their escape back to Nottingham, cutting open skins of water to carve a narrow passage through the fiery barrier surrounding the city and pulling tight the horses’ goggles to steer the animals through these gaps. The noxious fumes spread by burning sulfur were making it nearly impossible for the mercenaries to quickly counteract – they could barely _breathe_ – while the saboteurs wore masks dipped in water to ease their own breathing. 

Of the dozen trebuchets Vasey had brought, eight had remained in working order by nightfall, the others having been destroyed in the flaming-arrow counterattack, and of these, six were now destroyed and a seventh one damaged seriously enough to need major repairs before it could be used again. They had paid a price for their daring, too: two of their own number perished in an ill-timed Byzantine fire explosion, and a third one, Archer’s companion, was seriously wounded, although Archer had managed to hoist him up into his own saddle. Much singed off a good deal of his hair, and Guy received a cut on his arm – luckily, it was not his sword arm, and his fellow had helped him quickly bandage it to stop the bleeding once they had jumped past the fire. Still, the casualties were kept to a minimum, and another pair of daredevils left without horses were rescued by the reserve guard who raced to bring the spare horse to them from the edge of the forest upon seeing them shoot up a flaming arrow, the agreed-upon distress signal. Guy’s only regret in all that was that he had not had time to seek out Vasey and kill him.

They made it almost all the way to the city gate before a posse of pursuers caught up with them. The soldiers were almost two dozen strong against twelve of them who could still fight – and with two horses each carrying two men, one of them wounded – but the pursuers were still dizzy from sleep and sulfur fumes, reeling from the attack, and certainly lacking the steely determination of their quarry. In the vicious fight that broke out just outside the gate – the guards on the walls dared not shoot for fear of hitting their own men in the melee – the pursuers were quickly repelled, the survivors scrambling back to relative safety behind the burning grass.

Yet safety was the last thing that they obtained. They were met by an infuriated Vasey looking for scapegoats, and four of them – the first ones to run – were shot on sight on Vasey’s orders. This did little to inspire the mercenaries’ confidence in their employer, but a mixture of threats and promises of reward eventually procured Vasey a hundred-strong force, which further bullying and cajoling finally increased by half, of men willing to storm the city at dawn.

By the time they had reached the city walls, however, they were met by a well-prepared defensive barrage of more burning sulfur, this time mixed with coal to make it burn slowly, raining down from the battlements, along with more black powder bombs, missiles of burning pitch, and clouds of extremely caustic quicklime – the defenders had ground and burned the limestone overnight to convert it into the noxious substance. When the attackers managed to roll a battering ram up to the gate, the squad that operated it was quickly picked off by well-aimed arrow shots, and the ram itself set on fire by the incendiary munitions to make it impossible for others to get close enough to it to set it in motion. By mid-morning, the attack had collapsed despite at least another hundred mercenaries having been urged forward as reinforcements, and no amount of Vasey going berserk could entice his remaining soldiers to move forward. The only ray of hope, as it were, was the sole trebuchet remaining in working order that was now able to advance on the city – the grass fires had burned out by sunrise – and was using what remained of the Byzantine fire supplies to inflict damage on the city that was all but out of reach of the besieging forces by then, its crew under threat of immediate execution by Vasey if they abandoned their posts.

Vasey was livid.

“Imbeciles! Incompetent, impotent idiots! You are not getting one shilling of my money, not one pence, after this! I will have you all drawn and quartered and have your guts fed to wolves! No, I will have them fed to rats!”

He could not believe the extent of the disaster. The day before he had ridden up to the walls of Nottingham leading a troupe of five hundred men and a dozen trebuchets loaded with one of the two deadliest known substances, and victory over Nottingham, and over Hood, and over Gisborne, and the capture of his insolent pretender of a sister, seemed a matter of hours at most. And it had started so nicely, with a beautifully orchestrated bombardment of the city.

And then the rabble hiding inside the walls had stopped it with their stupid grass fire. _Stupid, but effective_, he was forced to admit.

And then the filthy ruffians led by _Gisborne_, no less – _who would have thought he could carry out a plan without bungling it! – _had reduced his formidable weaponry to charred heaps and his overpaid and overconfident mercenaries to whining altar boys. Vasey grimaced in disgust as he mounted his horse and rode off without a word even to Blamire, his new second-in-command.

_A man must do everything himself_, he fumed as he rode toward the disused cemetery at the edge of the forest. The tunnel he had ordered built might be blocked just ahead of the castle entrance – his scouting party of the day before had returned with the discouraging news – but they had no way of knowing about the hidden spring door camouflaged with stones mere yards before that spot that opened into a narrow passage leading to his chamber. Not even Gisborne knew about it; Vasey would never trust anyone with his life completely, and Gisborne had already shown signs of disobedience at the time the tunnel was being built. And now, hoping to regain the use of his castle, Vasey was keen to keep that knowledge to himself.

_Gisborne will never see it coming_.

.


	16. Chapter 16

Meg had been watching the fight outside the gate, and the abortive attack, from her old observation post in the belfry. She had been awakened by the sounds of explosions coming from outside the city and, realizing with horror that Guy was no longer by her side, dressed hastily and left the inn despite the innkeeper’s feeble protests to see what was going on.

As she watched the sabotaging party return from their sortie, she was, for the second time in two days, gripped by a mixture of pride and worry for her betrothed. Her eyes riveted to the spectacle of Guy on horseback fighting off the pursuing mercenaries outside the gate, she admired his grace and skill as he went through the paces of the savage dance, clashing swords with the enemies, thrusting and parrying with seeming ease, even as she trembled in desperate fear for his safety. This was a man who enjoyed the deadly thrill of the fight, and even though she was happy in the knowledge that his dangerous skill was now employed for good purpose, she wished he would have no need to ever again display it. And hoped that, were he to make it back alive, she would find enough distractions to keep him well away from such pursuits.

When she saw the pursuers retreat and the gate swing open again to admit the victorious fighters, she rushed down the stairs almost at a tumble and raced breathlessly through the church nave into the square. This time she was not going to miss him.

“Guy!” Meg stayed on the church steps so that he could easily see her, but was screaming at the top of her voice.

Guy’s head snapped in her direction as he flicked the reins, rode up to the church and scooped Meg up in the saddle. He was dismayed at seeing her so dangerously close to the city gates, but too thrilled from their early morning victory and the recent battle to voice his concern.

“You know what happened?” he asked instead with a dangerous smile that still reflected the bloodthirsty fights of that morning.

“I do, I woke up when I heard explosions and watched you from the belfry just now!”

Guy had wanted to reprimand her for her reckless choice of observation post, but the pride in her voice silenced him.

“They are beaten, Meg, or are about to be. Another hour or two and it will be over. And you will be safe,” he pressed his arm closer around her. “But please, please do not stay in the city now. Let me take you underground where John and the people are hiding. I will come for you when it is finished.”

Meg bristled at the idea, but could not bring herself to argue. She had only once before heard Guy plead for something - _for my life_ – and hearing him do it again when addressing _her_ had robbed her of any will to object.

“Very well,” she sighed instead.

They had reached the castle courtyard, and Guy had dismounted and helped Meg to the ground. They were about to enter the castle to make for the cisterns – but at that moment, they both ducked reflexively as a hissing projectile hurtled in the sky directly above them before seemingly disappearing into nowhere.

For a moment, Guy squinted upwards, his mind racing. There was too much noise coming from recent fires nearby, started by bombardment form the remaining trebuchet, for him to have heard the impact clearly enough to pinpoint the spot the firebomb had hit. And then, as he saw the smoke and flames belching up from the middle of the castle roof, he understood.

One of the last bombs to be launched in the attack had landed almost exactly on top of the map-room ceiling.

The vaulted, wooden-beamed ceiling.

With the powder barrels underneath.

“Guy?” standing beside him, Meg saw his face fall.

“Get out,” he said, still looking up, his voice menacing and terrified at once. When she hesitated, Guy grabbed her arm and stared at her, wild-eyed. “Meg, the keep is going to blow up. Get out, run as far as you can, and hide. Now!” he yelled as he pushed her away from him, toward the barbican.

Obeying him more from impulse than conscious thought, she turned and ran.

***

Nottingham Castle was doomed. They had not had the time or resources to empty the map room of its deadly contents before. Despite his misgivings, Guy had been forced to yield to Robin’s objections that the map room was arguably the safest place in Nottingham anyway – _short of a firebomb hitting it spot on_, Robin had said, little knowing that he was tempting fate with his confidence – and even as the sulfur and limestone had been cleared away for use on the battlements, most of the black powder remained as they had lacked an effective means of delivery for it. As tempted as Guy was to call men to the map room to get the powder out now, there were simply too many barrels, and too few men, and the barrels were too unwieldy and heavy, to finish the task before the roof collapsed; and so long as a few of those remained, the castle keep was going to be a pile of rubble. He remembered only too well the effect that four barrels of powder stored in a cave had had when they were made to explode by Robin’s flaming arrow, and this time around, even considering the powder they had used up, they had probably ten times as many casks still stuck in the map room.

Guy and Robin were about to leave the castle courtyard to warn others, including unsuspecting remaining townsfolk who might have an unlucky taste for marauding, to stay away from the keep, when Robin stopped and gasped.

“Isabella!” She had been locked away in the castle dungeon since the siege began, even as Robin had freed all the other prisoners, and neither of them had thought of the woman until then, Robin still reeling from Kate’s death, Guy because his sister meant nothing to him anyway.

“Robin, there is no time,” Guy insisted. “Do you want to get blown to pieces?”

“I must. Save her.” Robin clenched his teeth as he slammed his fist into his thigh. “Guy, where are the dungeon keys?”

“You left them in the armoury!” This was after Robin had run to the dungeon the day before to free prisoners and bring them to join the defenders.

“The _other_ dungeon keys. You know what I am talking about.”

Guy knew. There was a second set in a secret compartment in the great hall. But going in was still madness.

“Robin, you are out of your mind.”

“Tell me where they are.”

“No.” The compartment door was easy to find once you knew it, but impossible to describe to someone who did not. “I will get them. Wait here,” Guy muttered as he raced down the passageway leading to the great hall, sword in hand.

Guy had descended the great hall stairs and put down the sword as he reached for the unmarked, oddly shaped stone low under the wooden staircase, when he flinched at the familiar voice calling from the shadows.

“Gisborne…”

The word seemed to drip with venom. Guy’s lips twitched as he jumped up and brought himself about to face the man he had worked for – slaved for – for fifteen years. Apparently, Vasey had had the same notion as Robin – though his motives for getting Isabella out of the dungeon had to be vastly different.

He had been Guy’s mentor, his superior and protector. At times, when Guy could forget Vasey’s lusty leering, he could almost think of the man as a substitute father.

The thought now made him nauseous.

“You have betrayed me, Gisborne,” Vasey hissed, “you have bitten the hand that fed you.”

Guy gave him an evil, tight-lipped grin. He found Vasey despicable, and himself an utter fool for having been so brainwashed as not to see it.

“I have trusted you,” Vasey went on.

“And I’d bet you are heartbroken,” Guy threw back his head with a contemptuous laugh. It was good to be immune to the fiend, at last.

“I have treated you like a son – “

“Enough of this drivel,” Guy growled as he reached for his sword –

To realize that he had put it down on the floor a moment earlier. And Vasey had steered him away from it as he goaded him, and had now picked it up.

_I am an imbecile._

He wanted nothing more than to strangle Vasey with his bare hands, and was instead left facing the man brandishing two swords, including his own, armed with nothing more than a dagger.

Vasey gave out a sickening laugh as he advanced on Guy, watching with glee as his former lieutenant backed away from him toward a window – _maybe I can lure the troll there and push him over, _Guy thought, – and readying the sword for the attack. He lunged at Guy –

And fell to his knees not two feet away from him, the blades clanging uselessly to the floor, as an arrow pierced his back and went through his body, its tip sticking incongruously out of his chest in the centre of a rapidly spreading wet stain. He gurgled and clawed at the stone floor, still reaching for one of the swords, but then his eyes rolled into his head as he fell forward, his face slamming into Guy’s boot.

Gisborne stared at Robin of Locksley standing at the entryway platform, bow in hand.

“I owe you one, Robin,” he muttered before kicking Vasey’s head away and retrieving his blade.

“Don’t mention it,” Robin smirked, “especially…” he checked himself. _To Kate_, he had wanted to say.

Guy once again made a dash for the wall, pushing open the compartment and sweeping up the keys in one quick motion before throwing them to Robin as the two of them headed toward the exit.

“You sure you want to do it?” the thought of Isabella dying alone in the dungeon made Guy cringe, but in his mind she was too much of a spiteful loose cannon to risk one’s life to rescue.

“Yes.” Robin sounded gravely confident. “I feel… responsible in a way, for what she has turned into, with the way I treated her since she came here.”

“Don’t.” Guy’s voice was equally grim. “I have known her longer than you, and she has always been like that.”

“You are probably right,” Robin grinned. “But she is a lovely lady and I have a weakness for beauty.”

“All yours, Robin,” Guy concluded as they reached the dungeon stairs at a run, just before Robin veered off into the gloom. “Watch yourself in there!”

They both chuckled as they parted company, knowing that those were the most unlikely words ever spoken.

***

Almost half an hour later, the castle roof was still burning, spewing black smoke with no explosion in sight, though Guy knew it by then to be a matter of moments before the fire would eat away the wooden beams of the map room ceiling and the falling timbers would ignite the powder. And as if that were not enough, Little John had returned with a substantial crowd of people who had hurried back from the water cisterns believing that, now that the siege was over, the danger was past – not knowing that the worst of it probably awaited them yet. Seeing the party emerge from the castle cellars, Guy yelled at them to get the hell away from the courtyard and sent John back underground to tell – order – the others to stay away from Nottingham and get out into the forest , shouting to Archer, who had come back for munitions only to realize that it was no longer safe to retrieve them, to go up the castle ramparts and keep an eye on the courtyard to immediately send away whoever might make it through regardless, hoping that he sounded authoritative enough to be obeyed. Still, the townsfolk now above ground needed to be properly warned about the magnitude of the danger, and Guy, knowing himself _not _to have the greatest authority in their eyes – he might be a good warrior but he was not their idol, – ran to the armoury looking for Robin, hoping that he might deliver one of those speeches that everyone listened to. And then he himself would go to John and the others underground, and bully them into going to the forest if need be.

Tuck was in the armoury as Guy rushed in, tending, as best he could, the wounded and burned volunteers who had been brought there for temporary shelter.

“What is it?” he asked wearily.

“A lot of people got back from the cisterns, and are now back in town. They will panic when the castle blows up.” Both knew that it was a matter of _when_, not _if_. “Someone needs to talk to them before they lose their wits.”

“Do you want me to do it?” The usually confident man appeared shaken. Broken somehow.

“Go ahead. And if you see Robin, tell him about it!” he turned to leave.

“Guy…” Tuck’s voice was suddenly small.

Guy spun back to face him. No, it could not be…

“Robin is dead.”

It was true. All these years, he had chased and fought Robin, hated him, obsessed about catching him - and yes, wished he could kill him – but somewhere along the way, he had stopped believing that Robin Hood could really die.

It was true.

“How?” he managed.

Tuck looked uncomfortable.

“Your sister… stabbed him in the dungeon even as he had come to free her. She had a poisoned dagger. He made it back but died from the wound.”

_Isabella!_ The demented witch seemed to spread poison and death everywhere around her. Guy clenched his fists and glared at Tuck, though the anger was not meant for him.

“Where is she?”

“She was last seen in the keep, I think she must still be there. But Guy,” Tuck tried to admonish as he saw Gisborne turn to the door once more, “do not go, it is too dangerous! The keep may explode any moment!”

His warning was lost as Guy raced madly out of the armoury. The panicking citizens had to wait.

He had to stop and catch the little reptile before she could do more harm. Not kill her – he would love to do that, but somehow it seemed to be _too much to her liking_ – but to arrest her and bring her in front of the people she had deceived with her feigned justice, to bring her to trial for her crimes, the latest of which had been killing a legend. Guy was a criminal himself, he made no bones about that, but he knew a fellow criminal when he saw one. And he knew that a quick death was too easy a way out.

He saw her as he came back to the castle courtyard, her eyes wild, the now-useless dungeon keys dangling from her belt, standing there laughing as she surveyed the death and destruction around her, looking for all he cared like a creature out of hell. She saw him too, and beckoned him closer. Guy stepped toward her, but his head snapped at the ominous crash of the map room ceiling caving in, so that Isabella was momentarily out of his line of sight -

“Gisborne!” it was Archer’s voice, suddenly piercing and distressed. Guy turned reflexively toward the sound, his eyes seeking out his half-brother still standing on the castle ramparts –

Just as Isabella, who had pulled a dagger out of her bodice, launched herself at Guy. His reaction to Archer’s warning had thrown off her aim; but even as she tried to regain her target, Archer flicked his hand, and in the next moment Isabella let out a yelp as a sharp pain exploded at the base of her neck.

She clutched at her neck where the star-shaped metal object had stuck and ripped it away, grimacing and stumbling back as the pain disoriented her. Knowing herself to be at least temporarily disadvantaged if not summarily defeated, Isabella scrambled back toward the keep and up the stairs leading to the entrance, trickles of blood marring her pale skin. She turned back for an instant in the archway, grimacing at Guy with a feral hiss –

And at that moment, the keep shook and started crumbling, as if it were a mountain of snow melting in a furnace, as the powder exploded inside. And then the sky started raining stone and fire, and Guy turned and ran without thinking, out of the courtyard and as far away from the keep as he could get.

***

It was over.

Guy stumbled toward the city gates, deaf to the noise around him, shaken by the explosion and by the horrors and heroics that had preceded it – Vasey’s attack, Robin’s death, his demented sister’s last horrible moments, Robin and Archer both saving his life within the span of an hour – wanting to get as far from it all as he could. He prayed that Meg had found her way to safety, but was too exhausted to go looking for her straight away.

Then he saw her, picking her way through the crowd – startled by the enormous explosion and escaping the fires it had set off, most townsfolk were running in the opposite direction, out of the gate – she never wavered from her path and she never took her eyes off him.

_And I probably look a fright_, he thought wryly.

They stopped a few feet from each other, overwhelmed with relief and gratitude. Fate had once again thrown them into danger, but fortune had once again been on their side.

And then they had walked the remaining distance, and Guy swept her up in his arms.

Around them, the fires still smouldered, people shouted and ran, and the air was heavy with dust and acrid smoke. But they did not notice.

.


	17. Chapter 17

Six weeks had passed since Guy and Meg’s fateful meeting in the castle dungeons, and ten days had gone by since they were betrothed. In these ten days, their lives were turned upside down once more, and not at all because of the betrothal. The battle for Nottingham was fought and won, the central keep of the castle blown away in a massive explosion though its outer walls and two towers still stood. Richard was safely back in his kingdom, and if rumours were to be believed, en route to the city, though Nottingham was still in turmoil. And Vasey was finally truly dead, his head severed from his body and his heart cut out and fed to dogs by rejoicing townsfolk, even though it had been Robin and not Guy to have dispatched him this time. And so, for better or worse, was Isabella, crushed beneath the castle rubble, until Guy had paid the local gravediggers to give her a semblance of a decent burial.

But the victory had been hard won. Allan was badly wounded and teetered on the brink of death, with a restless Sarah, Marian’s former maid and until recently a castle serving girl, by his side. No one had known about their recent betrothal, but she now spent endless hours watching and tending him, her face drawn and eyes haunted. Worse yet, Kate had succumbed to an arrow wound inflicted by one of Vasey’s mercenaries.

And Locksley – Robin – was dead.

Guy would have never imagined that he would mourn his erstwhile enemy.

But he did.

***

“Are you sure you want me to meet with her alone?” Guy asked Meg as they stood outside of Allan’s sick chamber in the smaller of the castle’s surviving towers.

“Guy, I told you before and I am telling you again, I am sure.”

Meg had met Sarah in her brief sojourn at Nottingham castle. They did not really become friends – there had been no time for that – but when Meg and Sarah ran into one another again at Allan’s bedside – Guy had been busy but had asked Meg to check on his former lieutenant – the shared danger they had recently experienced had led to a renewal of their acquaintance and a sense of mutual trust.

Until, that is, Meg mentioned her betrothal to Guy.

And in her shocked response, Sarah mentioned her previous acquaintance with Lady Marian of Knighton.

It took Meg a good deal of time and effort in a long heart-to-heart talk with Sarah to persuade the girl to talk to Guy in person. But she was certain that it had to be done. _She is one of the few people who knew Lady Marian relatively well. And what she can remember of her mistress may help Guy face her death so he can finally find peace. Or else it will make him miserable again and he will walk away from me and break my heart._

Either way, Sarah’s account had convinced Meg that Guy needed to talk to her.

So she had persuaded Sarah.

And now she had finally persuaded Guy.

All that was left to do was wait for him to come back, and hope for the best.

Meg squeezed Guy’s free hand as he knocked on the door.

“I’ll see you back at the shelter.”

“Is Much taking you there?”

“Yes.”

“Be careful.” He gave her a quick kiss and went in as Sarah opened.

“Come in, my lord.”

Sarah, a tall, dark-haired girl slightly older than Meg, looked exhausted as she glanced nervously at Guy before returning to Allan’s bedside.

“How is he?” Guy asked quietly.

“He is… still poorly, my lord,” Sarah replied uncertainly. It seemed strange that this heartless man should care at all.

“I hope he makes it. If there is anything I can do…” he trailed off.

“You tortured him when he was first brought here!” Sarah was evidently not one to mince words. “What should you care if he lives now?” Reminded of mortal danger to someone dear to her, she had forgotten the formality of titles.

“I have done a lot of things that I’ve come to regret.” _How about everything I did for twenty years, for one? “_But believe me or not, I do care if Allan lives. And for what it is worth, I will pray for him.”

“You pray?”

“You would not believe it, but I do.”

Whether it was the admission, or the roguish smirk that accompanied it, but Sarah’s confidence in the man’s brutality was momentarily shaken. _Maybe Meg is not a silly infatuated girl after all_…

“In that case, we shall pray for the same thing,” she sighed. “But I know this is not why you are here.”

“No.” his voice was quiet and infinitely sad.

Once again, Sarah was momentarily thrown off balance. But why should she care if this man was suffering?

“You know I was Lady Marian’s maid here at the castle,” she began.

“Yes. I know.”

“She spoke to me about you, you know.” Sarah was not certain what kind of reaction to expect.

“Probably to curse me for all eternity,” he said with a low, mirthless laugh.

“You may be surprised. Well, she certainly loved Robin,” Sarah still felt satisfaction at seeing Guy wince, “she loved him and was going to marry him, but there were things she had said to Robin too that sounded to me like they made little sense. I remember them arguing in her chamber once,” she continued with an absent look as Guy tried to ignore a fresh stab of pain at the thought that Hood had seen Marian _in_ _her chamber_, “it was just after the siege and Robin was asking her to help spy on you and Sheriff Vasey to find something called Torus Patri – ”

“Thesaurus Patriae,” Guy corrected absent-mindedly.

“Tesorus Patri, then, and my lady was arguing with him and saying that even though she loved him very much, she thought you were a good man” – here Sarah could not help sounding doubtful – “and she knew you had feelings for her, and she thought it was wrong of her to keep deceiving you like that.”

“And what did Robin say?” Guy asked. It did not matter in the least what Robin had said but he needed to ask something, needed Sarah to continue talking so she would not see the tears brimming in his eyes.

“He simply said, “It’s Gisborne”.

Guy chuckled, and the treacherous tears rolled down his cheeks.

“And then one night just before she went away,” Sarah continued, and both knew which fateful voyage she meant, “she said something strange to me. She said, “I often wish that Guy and I had met in another lifetime.” My lord?”

This was directed at Guy, who at that moment had bolted from the room.

****

He stood on the ramparts of the castle wall– or rather, of the one tall section still left of it – trying to breathe. Which, considering how fast he had run up there and how hard he was crying, was not easy.

_In another lifetime_.

In a way, all those years up to the last winter had been another lifetime. One that had ended in Acre’s town square on a balmy, bright day in December.

He had watched that scene countless times in his nightmares, and in his waking hours he could recall the sight, the faces, even the voices – and to his eternal torment, the events.

But he did not _remember_.

It was as if he were watching a succession of pictures from someone else’s memory.

Until now.

_I love Robin Hood. I love Robin Hood! I am going to marry… Robin Hood_.

Her face, so beautiful, so blissful.

So free.

She was finally telling the truth.

But it had arrived on top of an infinity of lies, and it was too late.

And it had hurt worse than anything Guy had experienced, ever.

He remembered how his vision went black. _Without her, my world may as well turn to ash_, he had said once. For an endless moment in the sun of Acre, it did.

The pain was excruciating, wrenching, unbearable. And all he had wanted in that moment was to hurt her back.

And all he had to inflict the pain with was the sword in his hand.

Had she been a man, Guy would have probably derived more savage satisfaction from punching her, pummelling her with his fists, brutally and repeatedly. Swords were too clean and efficient a weapon.

But Marian was a woman, and he would never have hit her.

He had killed her instead.

He had destroyed her, but she had destroyed him too, at the same moment as his illusion of her had died.

_In another lifetime._

He sat on the broken castle roof until the sun had set.

***

“My lord, I was wondering if you were coming back,” Sarah said when Guy had finally returned to the chamber. She saw his red-rimmed eyes and knew better than to ask where he had been.

“I only wanted to thank you, Sarah… for telling me.”

It had made him remember the worst day of his life.

But it had also given him the ability to let it go.

Part of him would never stop loving Marian, and the shame and infinite regret at his crime and her death would remain. But the pain and the guilt would subside. All he could do was spend the rest of his life trying to atone for his crimes. By being a better man – he suspected that he would never become a _good _man – and by doing at least a tiny modicum of the good deeds that Marian would have done in her lifetime.

He stepped back toward the door.

“Good night. I will pray for Allan - for both of you - whether you believe me or not.”

“Thank you, Sir Guy, and good night.”

_And I will pray for both of you – for the three of you_ – she thought as Guy’s steps echoed down the stairs.

***

Unnoticed by Guy, a pair of sharp eyes followed him as he crossed the courtyard and rode out of the castle.

.


	18. Chapter 18

Meg stirred the firewood in the pit and shivered. It was a warm enough night and the fire radiated heat, but she was tired and had been sitting motionless for more than an hour. Much had taken her to the shelter she was now sharing with Guy and after her repeated assurances had left for the outlaw camp that lay about two miles away; twilight had gathered and solidified into the inky-blue nightfall; and yet there was no sign of Guy. Had he decided to call it off, after all?

They had moved into Guy’s riverside cave a week after the siege of Nottingham had ended, and had by then been there for about as long. Guy would have preferred to stay in town, but Meg’s worry about her father finding her had made her reluctant to show herself in Nottingham (and whether she had ulterior motives in wanting to stay with Guy and away from everyone else, she chose not to ponder). They could have stayed at the camp, but Robin’s death had cast a gloomy pall on everything and everyone, and Guy and Meg, as the newest arrivals, felt somewhat out of place among the remaining outlaws, as if they were distant relatives at a wake surrounded by a bereaved immediate family. Guy in particular felt awkward; he did, in his own quiet way, mourn Robin, but knew that with the history they had shared, others might forever suspect him of secretly rejoicing. They still joined the others at the camp for the occasional meal, but staying apart for the time being allowed them more breathing space.

Guy had managed to procure some earthly comforts from Nottingham; the place now boasted a fairly good approximation of a bed (albeit without a bedframe) with a mattress and linen, as well as plates, cups, a bigger boiling pot, a pair of oil lamps, and a washing basin. The crockery was shared, but the bed was Meg’s exclusive domain. Guy had announced the moment they moved in that he was sleeping on the floor, and kept to his word, taking his place every night at the entrance of the cavern. His only concession had been to take one of the pillows and use an old bearskin rug to lie on.

More time went by – the moon had risen and started its ascent – when finally the soft plodding of hooves sounded from the riverside trail. Guy appeared leading the mare by the bridle, and at seeing Meg, gave her a look that was at once relieved and frustrated.

“Margaret, how many times do I have to tell you not to sit here in plain view?” He had taken to calling her Margaret on occasion, which Meg was still getting used to. “It is not safe and you know it.”

“Sorry Guy, I had to look after the fire,” she replied weakly.

“Your safety is more important than the fire, Meg,” he sat by her side and kissed her on the cheek.

“I thought you might want something warm to eat when you came back.”

Guy put an arm around her shoulders.

“I thank you for your concern for me, but it still is not safe. I only hope we can find a place to move to in Nottingham or Sheffield after all this settles down.”

We_ can find a place... so he is still planning to marry me, right?_

Yet as they sat in continued silence, Meg was not so certain anymore.

“Guy?” .she eventually called.

“What is it?”

“If you changed your mind about me... after talking to Sarah...”

He did not let her finish, putting both arms around her to gather her closer.

“Silly girl!”

Somehow, it did not sound at all offensive.

A while later, after the fire had died, Meg called to him again.

“Guy, you are still upset, aren’t you?”

How could he tell her that he had just been through hell and back in the space of an evening? It was over but he was completely drained – and yes, still distraught.

“I just need to clear my head. Go inside, I will come back to you in a bit.”

“You will?”

“Of course I will.” And with another kiss on the cheek, he helped her get up and motioned her to the cave entrance.

Meg sat on the bed in the darkness waiting for Guy to come back before she would allow herself to drift off to sleep. All things considered, it could be much worse. He came back and it did not look as if he had changed his mind. She could only hope that he would feel better soon, or eventually.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a scuffle outside, in the clearing just above the mossy overhang hiding the cavern, sounds of snapping branches and trampling feet, and the uneasy whinnying of a horse.

Someone was out there, and it was not just Guy.

And by the sounds of it, now joined by shouts and indistinct swearing, they were fighting.

Meg’s first impulse had been to run out and shout – but she had to check herself. Her only weapon was a small dagger Guy had insisted on giving her, but without experience of its use she would be just as much danger to herself – or to Guy – in the darkness as she would be to the attackers. And although her wound was by then practically healed, she still knew better than to make sudden moves. She hated her powerlessness, but knew that she had no other option but to stay and wait.

A few moments later, the sounds of struggle were replaced by the clicking of hooves on the trodden soil of the pathway, and then everything went quiet.

Meg peeked outside the shelter and then crept up to peer into the clearing.

There was nobody there.

The mare from Eleanor’s carriage was still tethered where Guy had left her earlier that evening but there was no sign of Guy himself. Meg sank to the ground, her body limp but her mind working frantically. What could she possibly do?

A short while later, she went back inside the cave and came back with an oil lamp, lit and refilled. She could not save Guy on her own, but she was going to the only place she could get help.

The outlaws’ camp.

***

Archer was incredulous.

“You certainly are a brave one, my lady,” he said to Meg with a mixture of disapproval and admiration. “You made it all the way here in the dark, alone!”

_His voice sounds just like Guy’s. Almost._

_“_I had a lamp,” she countered. “And I have walked this way before.” It was true; during her time at the camp Meg took several strolls along the faint trail Much had shown her that ran the length of a dried creek bed between the outlaw camp and the river. Granted, it had been daylight then, but given the circumstances, she would be ready to walk ten times the distance in pitch darkness. Even without the lamp.

The remaining outlaws had been about to turn in for the night when Little John had squinted in the distance and put up a hand.

“Shhhh!” Somebody is coming here!

A short while later, all of them could distinctly hear the cracking of twigs and rustling of leaves underfoot, and finally saw the flickering light of an oil lamp that, to their infinite surprise, was soon revealed to illuminate the rather frightened face of Meg.

“My lady,” Much had cried out when she had approached, “What has happened? Is there trouble?”

“Yes,” she had said simply.

And now that they had heard her story, the concern on their faces had only intensified.

They did not argue that they needed to help Gisborne, after what he had done at the siege. The question was, how could they do it?

In the end, Archer spoke again.

“We need to go back to where your shelter is, Meg, we need to see that clearing. Our best hope is that there will be something left there that will give us a clue as to who they were. Without it, we may never know where they have taken him.”

_And what if there is no clue_, Meg thought in panic. But she knew as well as the others that Archer was right; it was their best chance.

A short while later, the small band of outlaws left their camp and stole into the forest, weapons at the ready, led by Much carrying the lamp.

.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the second chapter that was posted separately on FF.net

_This place stinks._

Guy grimaced as he kicked the pile of slippery rotten straw that had been tossed into the empty room to provide a semblance of a bed. Or rather, a mockery of one.

_Not that I would consider sleeping, anyway._

It had to be just before midnight. He had come back to the riverside cave in the forest an hour after sunset, and had barely spent half an hour sitting next to Meg outside before the brief and vicious scuffle had resulted in him being bound and gagged and thrown unceremoniously across a horse’s back to be brought back to Nottingham. He had fought hard, but with five men against him, he had hardly stood a chance.

At least he had killed the one in charge. It did not help his cause much, especially as he then had to suffer the indignity of having the body trussed next to him over the saddle – not with the other four men and, he realised belatedly, two more who had stayed to watch the barracks having been ordered to bring him to the Black Knights in Winchester and promised a good reward. Still, Guy had used the precious moments before he was overpowered and his dagger, the only weapon he had on him after unbuckling his sword scabbard by the fire, was forced out of his hand by a cut to his wrist, to drive that dagger into the chest of Baron Mowbray who had had the stupidity to have punched him and left a bloody gash in the side of his face with his signet ring. Guy had recognised the irritable, stocky man when the moon shone briefly on his face, and had instantly known that his past with Vasey had caught up with him. And in an ironic twist, the place he was dragged back to had been built on Vasey’s orders for the Black Knights’ visit – a small barracks near the crumbled castle wall, now disused, constructed hastily to house the knights’ retinue of guards and their supplies, little more than a dormitory with rows of bunks and a storeroom at one end.

Guy looked up with a sudden realization that he had been pacing nervously around the room, oblivious to the limp he had developed. A month ago, he had viewed the prospect of death as salvation, as a chance of blissful oblivion. But now, he was worried. Not for himself; since Richard was back in his kingdom, Guy’s life was eventually forfeit anyway. But for the first time in years, he wanted to, needed to stay alive because a beautiful, brave woman was waiting for him in the middle of a forest, alone in the dark. And he had to see her safely through this turmoil, whether or not he would live to marry her when it was over.

When he had uttered a quick prayer for her safety, Guy’s thoughts wandered to their meeting in the castle dungeon. He had been content to be left alone in the dim, musty cell, and had viewed the young stranger as an intrusion upon his well-deserved misery. Yet he was now infinitely grateful for whatever blessed misguided idea had impelled Meg to talk to him. If he dared, he would have prayed that they could escape Richard’s wrath in France – he had long dreamed of buying land and a winery there if he ever had extra money – and live a long peaceful life together. But he did not dare hope for that much.

At least for the moment he had something else to be grateful for: whether by accident or by design, Meg had stayed hidden during and after the fight. Guy could not bear to think of what might have happened had the brutish guards caught sight of her while he was helpless, tied up and unable to defend her. Still, the thought of Meg alone in Sherwood Forest was enough to send a chill through his bones.

He took another turn around the room, more purposeful this time, taking in the details of his prison in the hope that an escape opportunity would occur to him. It was not a purpose-built dungeon cell; the room was designed with restrictions in mind, but the intent had been to keep people from getting _in _rather than out: Guy was locked up in the emptied storeroom. The main advantage of that was an unexpected degree of privacy: unlike dungeon cells, the room boasted a massive door of solid wood. The only link to the outside world was a small barred window in its long wall; Guy tested the bars, but they refused to budge. The window was likely too small to let him escape in any case. There was no furniture save for a huge wooden chest left in a corner; Guy’s hands were manacled behind his back – _at least the guards had the courtesy to have taken off the gag _\- but he managed to grab hold of the sloping lid to ascertain that the chest was both open and empty. If he had half a day, he mused, it would have been possible to dig a hole in the packed dirt floor big enough to crawl through – he had no weapons left but could use the spurs on his boots for that purpose – but with the matin hour approaching, he likely had no more than four or five hours before he would join his captors for their return journey to Winchester.

For the first time in years, perhaps in his entire life, Guy wished that someone would come to his rescue. He had been in trouble countless times before, and had even been rescued before. Most of the time, however, it had been Vasey to have aided him. Vasey, who more often than not had put him in danger in the first place, and who invariably charged a high price for his charity in the form of endlessly berating Guy afterwards, to a point when he would wish he had been killed instead. Yet there had been others, and Guy still remembered those occasions with amazement. Most recently, in York and at the siege, he had been saved by Robin and Archer; before that, in a most incredible and heartbreaking turn of events, by Meg; once before, by Allan; once or twice, even Marian had apparently deemed his life worth saving. But he had never _needed_ his life and freedom as desperately. Still, he had to admit, with Robin dead, Allan wounded, and Marian away, no one would care to help Guy of Gisborne – save for Meg, and she had no way of knowing where he was.

His train of thought was broken by the matin bell tolling, and just then -

_Let graaaateful loooove quell maaaaiden shaaaaame -_

The forceful, tuneless bellowing made Guy wince. Did the guards get so drunk so fast as to forget all pretence at secrecy? If so, they would be in no shape to travel at dawn. Maybe there was hope, after all. But the song grew even louder, and in the next moment Guy was staring in momentary shocked incomprehension as the storeroom door was unlocked and another man was pushed through it to stumble and fall on the dirt floor, muttering slurred curses.

Guy’s bewilderment lasted only until the newcomer looked up, and even in the absence of lights – moonlight outside was providing the only illumination – Guy recognised his half-brother’s keen eyes and handsome features. He had the good sense to keep quiet, but as soon as the guards’ footsteps had retreated, Guy carefully set himself down next to Archer, who by then was sitting cross-legged leaning against the wall, seeming perfectly at home, and greeted him in a husky whisper.

“Fancy seeing you here, brother!”

“I figured it had been too long since I was last in prison. I was beginning to miss the experience,” Archer drawled.

Both chuckled. As Archer shifted slightly, Guy became increasingly aware that the other man reeked of strong drink, and that his boots were coated in mud as if he had been crawling in it, and feared for a moment that his half-brother was completely drunk.

“How long have you been boozing?”

“Don’t be silly.” This time, Archer’s whisper was crisp and businesslike. “I poured the stuff all over my clothes before I challenged the fools guarding this place outside to a game of dice, so they would take me for an easy target to dupe. I have used up half a skin of perfectly good eau-de-vie, but I assure you I am stone cold sober. Just needed to make enough ruckus for them to want to stick me in here with you, away from the hall.”

Guy sighed with relief. His brother might be sixteen years his junior but he had clearly mastered everything to do with fighting and tactics.

“Thank you,” he said finally, after they sat for a while in silence listening to the guards bantering noisily through their late meal. No doubt, rejoicing over Guy’s capture and the unexpected boon of a few coins confiscated from the drunken fool with an unfortunate passion for nighttime gambling. Or so they thought.

“For what?”

“Well… you came here, didn’t you?” _Even though it is still incredible that he did._

“You did it for me, remember? And then I went and got you and Robin in a tight spot with all that powder.” Archer fell silent for a moment, remembering that his other brother had never made it through that last spot of trouble. “Besides, you had the most persuasive supplicant arguing on your behalf.”

“Who?!” for an instant, Guy was genuinely dumbfounded.

“Your betrothed, of course. She came to our camp – ”

“No!” Even though there was nothing he could do about it, Guy was protesting. “She did not walk alone through the forest at night to find you –”

“Oh, but she did!”

It took a few moments for Guy to collect his wits. He was too lost between gratitude and frustration.

“That woman,” he finally managed, “is impossible.”

“You’d better thank your lucky stars, brother, for whatever it was that made her fancy you so much. For without her we would have never known what happened, let alone – ”

“We?!” _So Archer and Meg are not the only people who do not want me dead? This is getting stranger by the instant._

“Well, John and Much and Tuck and I, that is.”

“I see.” He still had difficulty understanding it.

Meanwhile, Archer’s thoughts ran in a more pragmatic vein.

“Are you badly hurt?”

“Not really.” Guy’s body was aching all over and he suspected that a close look would reveal its share of scratches and bruises, but the consequence of his being greatly outnumbered by better-armed opponents was that it had not been much of a fight. And he was lucky that they happened to need him alive, after all.

“Good,” Archer muttered. “Excellent!” he added as he looked closely at Guy’s boots.

“What?”

“You have spurs!”

“Why, don’t you?” Guy squinted at Archer’s muddy boots, surprised that something so commonplace could seem unexpected.

“I did, but I had to sell them. Bought me a week’s meals in York before I was caught.”

Guy looked down in silence. In his relatively comfortable life until a month ago, he had almost forgotten what it was like to be destitute. Almost forgotten what his own life had once been like.

“I was not saying it to shame you.” Archer’s tone was unexpectedly conciliatory.

“I did not take it so. You might be surprised… but my life was little different when I was your age.”

“Give me one of those so I can cut through the bindings here,” Archer continued, motioning to Guy’s spurred boots with his wrists, tied together with a length of rope.

Guy kicked off the boot and sat watching Archer as he pried off the spur, returned the boot to him and started scratching away at the cord.

“How did you manage, anyway?” Guy finally asked. “How did you become a weapons trader?”

“Simple, really. I did not have a lot of choice. Grew up in Canterbury as a choir boy at an abbey until I was ten, but then ran off to London and apprenticed myself to an armourer. Three years later the man died and I went off to France, then made my way to Marseilles, got hired as a deckhand on a ship bound for Constantinople, and there met an Indian merchant who told me all sorts of wonderful stories about the riches in his country. I was fourteen by then, and he took me on as a bodyguard – no one suspected that I was a good fighter at my age – so I accompanied him to India. But when we got there, I heard more stories about wonders that lay further east, and took my leave to go there. I did not get rich but I found out things that I thought could make me a fortune in Europe. So I sought out my Indian patron and returned with him on his next journey to Byzantium, and brought samples and writings with me. Back in Constantinople, he helped me meet a local armourer who made me a good supply of munitions in exchange for eventually getting the powder formula from me, and after selling a small portion of those I had enough money to charter a ship for England loaded with these things. I thought I would set myself up for life, sell all that and buy myself a huge damn castle, except that once or twice I cheated and got caught, and once or twice I was cheated upon, and one thing leading to another, I got in trouble with the Sheriff of York’s cousin. You know the rest.”

“You have seen more of the world than I could ever dream of,” sighed Guy, in awe of his little brother’s adventures. “More than most people could dream of, really.”

“Funny, and all that time all I wanted was to have a home here.”

“I know what you mean.” Guy’s voice was genuinely sad. “You and me both, brother.”

“At least you are betrothed to a lovely lady now. One way or another, the two of you will find a way to make a living.”

_If Richard does not have me executed first,_ Guy thought.

“How come you never married until now?” Archer continued. “You are what, thirty? Thirty-five?”

“Almost thirty-seven,” Guy muttered. “I was betrothed… once.”

“What happened?”

There was a long silence.

“I killed her,” Guy said very quietly, just when Archer thought that he would leave the question unanswered.

“Why?!” Archer could not help gasping.

“The lady... was Robin’s bride. She always loved him, I suppose, but when I met her while he was away, I hoped... wanted to hope that she would consider me, would choose me... once I knew her I could not imagine a life without her, but she never loved me, and I could never be good enough for her... She was right, I suppose. When I finally saw that she would never stop loving Robin I... knew that I’d never be able to keep her and I could not bear it. So I...” Guy’s voice caught in his throat. He still could not think back to that day, that evening, without choking in pain. It was as if he had died then, and everything since then had been a peculiarly lifelike variety of hell. Until he met Meg, that is.

“What was she like?” it was a cruel question, but Guy knew that it was prompted by pure curiosity. Archer had never set eyes on Marian, and had only heard her mentioned in passing during the siege.

Guy hesitated again. He could still recall her face, its many expressions, alternately coquettish and stern, concerned and mischievous, but the memory of her was distant and faded. The pain was there, but it was no longer the acute anguish of the first few months.

“She was… stronger, and more reckless than Robin and I put together. And better-looking,” he smirked. “And noble, not just by title. Always had a soft spot for the peasants and the poor, and I could not see eye to eye with her on that for the life of me. And she really loved him, and I just refused to see it.”

“You and Robin were really at each other’s throats a lot, were you not?” Archer asked, shaking his hands to get rid of the stiffness once he had finally cut through his restraints.

“We had our reasons,” Guy countered somewhat more defensively than he would have liked to. “But in the end, it did not matter…”

“Shhhh…” Archer lifted his now-free hand and turned to the door to listen. There had been hardly any noise from the other side of the door for a while, and after a few seconds of silence, they were able to discern the welcome sounds of heavy snoring coming from the hall. The guards had finally drunk themselves to sleep.

“So what do we do now?” asked Guy as Archer fished out a long curved pin from a concealed pocket in his jerkin and expertly manoeuvred it to pry open Guy’s handcuffs.

“What do you think we do? We escape! Or do you think that I merely wanted to keep you company here?” Archer was whispering, but his voice still managed to convey all the smugness of a loud retort. _Just like Robin, really._

“I know that, you brat. But how the hell _do_ we escape? There is nothing…”

Guy’s voice trailed off as Archer pulled of his soiled boots – soiled, he now realised, for the exact purpose of rendering them unattractive in the eyes of anyone who might want to relieve Archer of his footwear – to reveal that the high boots had been packed tight with leather satchels. Guy had seen enough of Archer’s merchandise to know what they contained.

Presently, the younger man lifted his shirt and began to uncoil strands of rope wound about his waist. Judging by the smell, the rope had also been doused with spirits.

“You never know when these things can come in handy,” Archer chuckled as Guy tried not to look too much in awe of his young brother’s resourcefulness. “You are lucky I had some of these leftovers at the camp.”

“But we do not need this much to blow open the door,” Guy reasoned.

“Who said anything about the door? There are still four guards in here, plus two outside, and drunk as they may be, they are armed with swords and pikes, which is more than can be said about us. No, brother, I think we are better off blowing up this wall here,” Archer pointed to the outside wall with its small window.

“What, and have it fall in on us?”

“Not if I place the powder charges correctly,” Archer countered. “Get your other spur.”

Guy unbuckled the remaining spur off his boot and watched Archer as he proceeded to use the first spur to dig a small, deep hole at the base of the wall before motioning to Guy.

“See how I do it? Make them deep enough, but not too far out so that the wall collapses outwards, not inwards.”

They moved along the central portion of the wall, digging holes every couple of feet – with Archer’s half a dozen satchels, they could well blow a gap two or three yards wide to make certain that they could escape – before Guy reattached his prized spurs, Archer planted the charges and affixed the rope fuses, and before they pushed the empty chest to the wall opposite the one they were about to blow up, and tipped it sideways, with the open top side facing the near wall away from the impending explosion.

Archer next produced, from somewhere inside his jerkin, a jagged flint and a bent bracket of firesteel, and unwrapped a remaining leather pouch, spreading the leather flat on the floor to reveal a chunk of dried horse’s-hoof. He crouched on the floor and prepared to strike the flint when Guy grabbed his shoulder.

“Wait!” he hissed. “You cannot spark a fire when your clothes are soaked in spirits!”

“Oh bloody hell!” Archer clenched his hand in a tight fist. In the excitement of the moment, he had actually forgotten about that, and was both grateful to Guy for staying alert and angry at himself for his near-fatal blunder.

“Let me,” Guy offered.

“No, I’ll do it,” Archer insisted. He stripped off to his bare chest and rubbed his skin with the dry back of his linen shirt before turning to Guy.

“Give me your jerkin.”

“What for?” Guy’s voice was laced with suspicion.

“What do you think for?” I need to cover up my trousers, they are soaked as well.

Guy looked hesitant.

“You will not burn through it, will you? I like this jerkin…”

“Oh, you will have your precious jerkin back.”

“Question is, will I have it back with a big hole burned in it?”

“Would you rather have a big hole burned in my nether parts? _I _would not.”

Guy chuckled as he shook off the jerkin and handed it to Archer, but still managed to look vaguely sulky.

After a few attempts, the firesteel sparked and the horse’s-hoof kindled with a patch of glowing points. Archer picked up the chunk of fungus and blew on it to keep the fire going.

The two men now crouched just inside the upturned chest as Archer prepared to light the fuses. Despite his best efforts to conceal it, Guy looked visibly tense.

“Skittish, are you?” Archer teased.

“I had a bad experience with powder,” Guy growled.

Archer was seemingly unimpressed.

“It cannot have been that bad. You are alive, and still have your hands and feet attached, which is more than most of those who have _truly_ had a bad experience can boast.”

“Very well, but barring _that_, it was bad enough. I had three barrels of powder explode some thirty yards behind my back. Three huge barrels stuck in a mountain cave!”

Archer whistled softly.

“How in the world did that happen?”

Guy shook his head.

“Robin,” he said finally.

This time, Archer almost laughed out loud.

“And yet you were fighting side by side by the time I met the pair of you. Now _this _sort of forgiveness is impressive indeed.”

It was Guy’s turn to chuckle.

“Somehow I never looked at it that way.”

“Ready?” Archer asked, holding the rope fuses in one hand and the smouldering fungus in the other.

“As ready as can be,” Guy sighed.

Archer held the horse’s-hoof to the fuses long enough to ensure that they were all lit, before dropping them and ducking inside the chest alongside Guy.

“Cover your ears,” he had time to say before the room filled with the brilliant flashes of the exploding powder, the air turned acrid with smoke and dust, and the thunderous crash reverberated through the street.

The explosion had propelled the chest and its occupants closer toward the wall, but a good push was all that was needed to widen the gap enough to get out. The two men cautiously poked their heads out of their shelter –

To see an irregular gaping hole at least four yards wide in the wall opposite, surrounded by piles of rubble. Some might call the sight ugly, but to the two prisoners, it was nothing short of beautiful.

They had made their way through the gap long before the shocked guards stumbled to the storeroom door.

.


	20. Chapter 20

Meg watched in anxious anticipation as a hay cart, drawn by a mule and driven by Little John, screeched its way up to the porch of the Wanderer’s Rest. She had enough trust in Archer’s fighting abilities, and some faith in his duty to Guy as a brother, to hope that he would be able to get her betrothed out of the dungeon. But she would not rest easy until she saw Guy alive and, given the circumstances, as close to well as possible.

Earlier that night, they had arrived at the forest clearing near the river to discover indistinct hoofprints, scraps of chain mail, a dagger – not one of Guy’s but not identifiable – and a ring.

With the insignia of the Black Knights.

From there, it was an easy step to bribe the owner of the Trip Inn to point them toward the now-disused barracks the new arrivals were staying in just outside the castle. There was only one Black Knight per se - Baron Mowbray, the owner of the ring he had so injudiciously lost in the forest scuffle; the rest were merely hired guards instructed by their masters to capture the inconvenient witness so he could be tortured to reveal anything he knew of value from among Vasey’s many secret schemes, and killed afterwards if he did not succumb to the torturer’s rack.

As Archer went in to work his magic with the guards, the rest had stayed just out of sight in anticipation. About half an hour later, a brilliant flash of light illuminated the grimy backstreet, followed by a thunderous explosion as an entire stone wall of the barracks crumbled down onto the pavement. In a few moments, two figures emerged from behind the rubble, coughing and swearing as they made their way toward the gang’s hiding place. Archer and Guy.

Meg had missed out on the spectacular sight, having been relegated to waiting at the Wanderer’s Rest, where she had spent the preceding hour fretting and fearing, and thus had no idea what news would await her on the cart’s arrival.

The cart stopped, and to her consternation, the only figure she saw was Little John’s bulky outline as he descended from the front seat. But just as she was about to run over to John and start questioning, she breathed a sigh of relief as she heard the familiar voice growl from somewhere inside the heap of hay:

“John, is this it, or did you just feel like stopping again?”

“This is it,” John conceded, and Guy poked his face out of the mass of stalks.

He looked terrible.

His handsome, chiselled face was covered in fresh bruises, and there was a nasty-looking gash running down one side of it from the hairline halfway down the cheek.

And when he gingerly made his way down from the cart, Meg could tell that the damage did not stop there.

She ran out to meet him and was momentarily dismayed by the consternation in Guy’s face – but as she saw his hand shoot up to cover his bruised and bloodied cheek, she was relieved in spite of herself.

_Vanity, thy name is Guy of Gisborne._

Ignoring the grumbling protests, she gave him the best approximation of an embrace without the risk of causing him pain.

“Thank heaven you are alive, Guy.”

He did his best to sound dismissive.

“You need not have worried, Meg, it would take more than a couple of thugs to kill me.”

Once John had left, they walked into the inn and made their way upstairs. The large bedchamber with its wide bed and wooden bathtub, the same room that Meg had shared with Eleanor, was now once again Meg’s, as she had paid for a night’s stay not knowing how long they would wait for news of Guy’s whereabouts, but under the circumstances she led Guy into it and, dismissing his objections, announced that the room was his as of that moment, while she herself would go to an adjacent smaller chamber. Meg had just asked the maid for strips of linen and hot water to fill the bath when Guy turned to her.

“You should rest. Go to your chamber, I will get myself cleaned up and will see you in the morning.”

From his somewhat brusque manner, Meg increasingly concluded that Guy was not feeling all that well, which would also account for his hurry to get her out of the room. Which was not at all what she intended.

“Let me help you,” she began to say but was interrupted.

“No.” seeing her momentary dismay, Guy added in a softer tone, “you really need not worry.”

_Why are men so proud? Or is it just him?_

_“_At least let me come and bid you good night when you are done.”

“Very well.” He hoped that she would fall asleep in the meantime and save herself the trouble.

But sleep was the last thing on Meg’s mind. As soon as she had heard the splash of the bath water being emptied into the gutter below, she retraced her steps to Guy’s room, and had barely waited for the weary “come in” before entering.

He had been leaning on the pillows with his eyes half closed but sat up with a start when he saw his visitor. In the dim, flickering light of the candle, the only illumination in the room, he looked both better and more tired than before. 

“Meg, how come you are still awake?”

“I told you I would bid you good night. Well, if you want me to go away now, I will.” she did her best to sound light-hearted and not show how much it would actually hurt her.

“No.” He motioned to the side of the bed. “Do sit down.”

She obeyed, noting with sudden interest that he did not have a shirt on.” _I wonder if he is naked under the covers._

Trying to brush the distracting thought aside, she made a show of adjusting the pillows.

“So tell me, how did the two of you get out?” she asked, trying hard to keep her tone businesslike. She had not expected to be quite so excited.

“Same trick we did in York, except that we had switched roles. Archer started a fight with the guards and was thrown in with me - .they had no idea who he was. We started a fire, and Archer used the powder bombs he had smuggled in to blow the wall away. It was easy, really, and Archer is extremely good at this sort of thing. But you, Margaret,” he paused, looking at her reproachfully, “you should not have run around the forest in the middle of the night, you risk yourself too much.”

“Too much!” she scoffed. “I was upset all this time for having done too little!” Meg nestled close to Guy on the pillows. “When I heard the fight I was so angry at myself for not being able to help you. If only you would teach me to fight, I could have...”

“No!” he almost shouted, but Meg was unfazed.

“Why not?”

“It is dangerous, Meg.”

_I have had my share of women fighters. And I could not live with myself if it got her into danger._

_“_You have to teach me something so I could at least defend myself when you are not with me,” she said as she pulled him in to rest his head on her shoulder and ran a hand through his damp hair.

“Very well, I will think about it.” _And even if I do, I hope you never, ever need it_.

“Talking of danger, Guy, you are in danger of picking up a very bad habit, and I would warn you against it.”

“And what would that be?”

“Getting into dungeons. As someone who has been in one myself, I seriously advise you to stop.” she lightly stroked the length of his nose with her finger.

He laughed as he shot her a mischievous look that made her heart flutter.

“Not to worry, ma chère,” he purred, “I have no wish for it now that I have much more alluring options.” He flicked his tongue at her ear, and Meg felt a shiver of excitement run through her.

“I will hold you to your promise,” she sighed as she planted small, light kisses on his bruised face.

_There will be no sleep for me tonight_, Guy thought, _with this lovely little siren next to me_.

But Meg, who had spent an eventful night in the rescue, was as tired as he was, and presently sank back against him.

“Guy,” she whispered sleepily as she rested her head on his chest, “can I stay, please?”

By all accounts, Guy had to send her back to her room. But he was tired, and he suspected that Meg would not like it. And it felt wonderful to have her next to him.

“Very well. Here.” he pulled over one of the covers to wrap over her. “Do you need another pillow?”

“No,” she replied contentedly, “you are soft enough... what are you laughing at?”

“Nobody would have ever thought to call me soft,” he murmured.

“They never got close enough to you to know,” she whispered back.

.


	21. Chapter 21

Guy woke up to a scene that was as intensely embarrassing as it was infinitely enticing.

After the bath the night before, he had given his linen to the maid so she could launder it, and now he had thrown off the covers in his restless sleep, and was lying naked on the bed.

With a stiff member.

And with Meg staring at it in unabashed fascination.

He blushed the deepest shade of crimson and stirred on the bed, reaching for the cover to pull it over on top of him –

At which moment Meg turned to face him and blushed in turn.

"Guy." She looked down, not knowing how to continue.

After a momentary silence, both of them started laughing.

“I told you,” Guy chuckled, “you should have stayed in your room last night.”

“Oh, I am not sorry that I came here,” Meg said with a defiant smile, “you do look nice... apart from the bruises, that is.”

It was true. For that matter, Guy was not the first naked man she had seen. There had been the cobbler’s son being chased out of their stables after an ill-fated tryst with one of the manor maids, and a few others Meg had seen in various states of undress.

But none of them had looked so beautiful.

“Really?” Guy presently asked with a predatory grin.

“Yes,” she whispered as she returned his look.

It was becoming a contest; they continued looking at each other, neither one turning away, both aware of the passions being stirred. Until Meg said, in a low voice:

“Can I look at it again?” _Oh dear, what am I doing?_

Guy licked his lips, looking for all she knew like a hungry wolf.

“As a matter of fact, my dear,” he grinned, “you can.”

She slowly pulled the sheet aside – and ran a finger along the warm, hard flesh.

Guy raised his eyebrows.

“That is not the way you do it,” he drawled in a dark, velvety voice.

“How should I do it then?” _And what is it I am supposed to be doing anyway?_

“Well... let me show you,” he said as he placed her palm on his flesh, covering her hand with his own.

It was a strange, exhilarating experience. She was amazed at how such a simple, though very intimate caress could bring the man to such heights of ecstasy as he lay rolling his head and gasping on the bed, the muscles in his strong body rippling with every stroke. Meg was both terrified and absolutely delighted at the power she now knew she could wield over him so easily. And when he moaned and shuddered before her in helpless surrender, Meg knew she would want to do it again.

After a while, as they once again lay back on the pillows in a gentle embrace, Guy sat up and pulled her up with him.

“Time for you to go now,” he said, “I need my bath.” he had asked the maid to come back with more hot water for the tub in the morning. It had helped soothe his aching body the night before, and he thought it would do him good to do it again. And for all Guy knew, the maid could be bringing up the buckets any moment.

“Why should I go? I can help lather your back,” Meg suggested, looking for a reason to stay. She would rather be with Guy than sit in a chamber on her own.

“Meg,” his tone held all the mischief of a mock warning.

“Come on Guy, I have seen you naked anyway,” she teased.

“Well, that was accidental,” he countered. _Though not at all unfortunate_.

_But she is driving me insane._

_“_Meg, I am not getting in a bath with you in the room...” his eyebrows shot up as he thought of a way to frighten Meg out of there, “unless you are getting in with me.”

“Very well.”

_What?! Is there no stopping her? Oh my._

_“_Naked.”

“Very well.”

_I give up._

_“_You should at least hide behind the bedcurtain when the girl comes in!”

“Very well, my lord.”

***

“I had no idea you would follow through with this,” he chuckled as Meg nestled up to him in the hot water. It was true; though he was now grateful that she had. He could not help casting admiring glances at her graceful body as she lowered herself into the tub, and by the looks of it, he was in for a treat in their married life.

“I am not that shy,” she said flippantly.

“I noticed. You keep staring at me whenever I am not looking.” .Guy flashed her a teasing grin.

“Forgive me, my lord, I cannot keep my eyes off you.” Meg smiled most unapologetically

“And I, my lady,” he growled, "find it impossible to keep my _lips_ off _you_," Guy countered as he trailed kisses from her ear down the side of her neck.

Meg threw back her head and closed her eyes as the wave of pleasure rippled through her. Guy continued kissing her, bending his head to reach her breasts, flicking his exquisite silky tongue between parted lips as she gasped in delight.

They were interrupted by a knock at the door, followed by the sound of the latch clicking.

“Who is there?” Guy sounded almost frightened.

“My lord, Martha and I have come to empty the bath,” the maid answered.

Guy and Meg looked at each other like children who had been caught stealing sweets.

“Quick, go behind the curtain,” Guy mouthed before shouting, “Give me a moment here!” With the bath water cooling, there was little sense in asking the girls to come back later.

With the maids gone, they were lying on the bed again, stark naked, gazing fondly in each other’s eyes, when Meg wrapped her hand around his wrist.

“Guy...” for once that morning, her voice sounded uncertain.

“Yes, ma chère?”

“When I...” she hesitated, “touched you this morning and you cried out, what did it feel like?” Meg was still confused; he had looked, for all intents and purposes, as if he were in pain; and yet she knew that it had been pleasure.

“I cannot really describe it,” he murmured. “I would have to show you to make you understand what it is like.”

“Would you?”

For a moment, Guy was too shocked to answer.

“My lady’s word is my command,” he drawled eventually in his most seductive low voice. “But be warned, it will try your modesty to the utmost.”

It sounded sinful. And irresistible.

“I am curious to find out,” she said.

He slid down the bed and gently pushed her legs apart, lifting her thighs so she lay before him with her knees bent.

Her first impulse was to resist, to cover herself. But she had asked for this. And she was not backing out... _And_ she was still curious.

Meg gasped in ecstasy as he ran his tongue along the insides of her thighs –

And then slid it between the folds of her flesh, lapping at her in smooth, soft strokes.

And as her face contorted and she rolled her head from side to side in extreme pleasure, she knew _exactly_ what it had been like for him that morning.

She moaned with happy abandon as the sensation built up and intensified as he carefully slid a finger inside her, moving it gently in and out as his tongue continued its caress.

It should have felt shameful. It certainly felt strange. And she absolutely did not want him to stop.

But she also wanted him next to her.

“Kiss me,” she moaned, taking his arm and pulling him towards her.

He slowly kissed his way up her skin until he lay beside her, his finger still inside her body, and turning her head towards him with his free hand, he slid his tongue into her mouth.

She cried out at the intensity of the sensation, feeling a wave of ecstasy build up inside her.

Guy looked at her, startled by the sound, but her eyes were closed.

“Don’t... stop,” she gasped between ragged breaths.

And then she opened her eyes to see him watching her in hungry, rapt attention –

And could no longer hold back against the pressure, screaming and shuddering as the wave hit her.

“I love you,” he breathed against her mouth.

“I know,” she found it difficult to speak, still gasping for air, “and if you have... any sense at all... you should know... I have loved you... since the dungeon_.”_

“I am sorry I never said it before,” Guy added quietly, “I have always been tongue-tied around women.”

“Not that I’ve noticed,” she smirked, thinking back to what he had just done to her.

.


	22. Chapter 22

**“**Guy, you are out of your mind!” Meg, who had been pacing around the room wringing her hands, had stopped at the window to squint into the afternoon sun before turning back to Guy. “You tried to kill King Richard once and you have now asked for an _audience_ with him?!”

“Twice.”

“What?”

“I tried to kill him twice.”

_Oh, this just gets better and better._

Two more weeks had passed; Guy and Meg were still staying at the Wanderer’s Rest, as neither one had a particular desire to return to the forest, no longer believing it sufficiently safe after Guy’s run-in with the mercenaries. In the meantime, the persistent rumours had come true as Richard had arrived in Nottingham. He was troubled by unrest in his kingdom’s heartland and so close to York, and saw it as a sovereign’s duty to restore law and order in person. So as of the day before, he and his small retinue had installed themselves in one of the castle towers that was still intact, meeting with local nobles and preparing for a larger Council gathering in three days.

And now, Meg had just discovered that her betrothed had put in a plea for an audience.

“Guy, please do not do this.”

“I have no choice, Margaret, he is my sovereign still whether I like it or not - and by now frankly I do not care - but I need to go before him. If I do not he will send for me anyway,” he added sourly. Since Richard had come back, Guy was living on borrowed time.

“Yes you have a choice. Let us go away, to Wales, to France – “

“Meg.”

“Guy?”

“I am not running.”

“So you’d rather be dead?”

“I would rather have some honour left intact, and if he chooses to execute me, at least I will not die like a coward.”

_And I will die like the heartbroken woman that I will be._

_“_I want you alive, do you hear me?”

“Well, if I get that chance, I will try to beg and grovel, for your sake.”

“This is not funny.”

“I am not being funny.”

Meg was close to tears. Short of going to Richard herself, she could not think of a way to stop her headstrong husband-to-be from getting himself killed.

“Am I really so bad that you want to get killed to avoid marrying me?”

Guy stretched out a hand from the bed he had been sitting on and, catching Meg’s fingers, pulled her to him.

“You know this is not true.”

Needless to say, she knew this to be untrue, but could not help throwing the barb just in case it worked. She seemed to be running dangerously short of arguments lately.

“I do not want you to die.”

“I am still alive.”

“I mean, ever.”

“That would be difficult, my love.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know...” she was too close to him, and too lovely, and too tempting. He bent his head slightly to kiss her neck and felt her hand tighten on his shoulder. “I will see what I can do,” he said in between kisses.

They parted company about an hour before dinner; Guy went to the stables to make sure that his horse was properly shod and groomed and the saddle was in order – ostensibly to avoid an embarrassing accident upon arrival at the castle, but in reality to get his mind off the impending audience. Meg tried to busy herself with embroidery and when that failed, reading the Psalms; but neither served to distract her from uneasy thoughts. They said little at dinner, and soon afterwards Guy announced that he was going to bed, pleading fatigue, and kissed her good night. They had agreed to see each other in the morning at breakfast before Guy left for the audience. But as Meg sat on her bed and the hours dragged away, she could not bear it any longer.

Walking over to Guy’s bedchamber, she knocked on the door.

“Meg,” Guy’s voice was tired but tender as opened the door to her. “What is the matter?”

“I cannot sleep,” she said in a small voice.

From his fully dressed and alert state, it was obvious that Guy could not sleep, either.

He took her in his arms and walked over to the bed, setting her down on it and lying down next t her.

“You should try,” he whispered as he stroked her face. “You will only wear yourself out by worrying.”

“I cannot help it,” she moaned. “I cannot help thinking of the danger you are going into. If you die, I will...”

“What?”

_Never marry. Cry myself to death. Never look at a man again._

_“_I will go back to Kirklees to become a nun.”

“Don’t. You should have a life, get a husband.” _A more deserving one, hopefully_.

“I already have one.”

“Not yet.”

“Well, if this is about taking my body, there is not much left to do.” _And I am never letting another man do that to me. They could not possibly be half as good as him._

“How would you know all that, anyway?”

“Eleanor told me once.”

_Women. She is half my age and she knows everything._

“And if that is what it takes, I will tie you to the bed right here and not let you go until you _have_ made me your wife.”

He could not help laughing.

“Well, there is the matter of the vows too.”

“I will call a priest here.”

_Who would have ever thought that a lovely, desirable woman would be cornering me into marriage? Damn, this is worth begging and grovelling to stay alive._

_“_Why does everyone always want to do that to me?”

“What, marry you?”

“No, tie me up. Between trees, bedposts, and the gallows, there is something about me and ropes and wooden restraints that gives people itchy fingers.”

For a while they lay still, facing each other and holding hands, until Guy leaned over to kiss her and she sidled up to him.

They found themselves unable to pull away, clinging to each other as they shared kisses, slow and gentle at first, growing more frenzied after Guy parted her lips with his tongue and she returned the kiss. When Meg paused to catch her breath in a few moments, she looked at Guy, her eyes dark with passion.

“Take me, Guy... please,” she moaned.

He stopped still as his eyes went wide.

“Meg... it hurts the first time, you know that?”

“I know,” she conceded. Her mind had been made up and there was no dissuading her.

“We are not even married,” he managed finally.

“I do not care,” she insisted before she sought out his mouth again and pressed her body tight against his, her fingers clawing at his back as she pulled him on top of her.

“You can tell me to stop anytime, you know.” His tone was almost begging.

“I know,” she whispered as she strained to meet his lips again.

It was a dizzying, intoxicating feeling, succumbing to the ecstasy of the kisses, tearing the clothes off his body and off her own, knowing herself to be on the brink of adulthood, feeling Guy’s strong arms on her body as he slowly parted her thighs –

And then he was easing himself inside her, and she whimpered at the stab of pain as her flesh was stretched and torn, but still held on to him as tight as she could.

“Meg, do you want me to stop now?” he asked, his concerned eyes never leaving her face.

She shook her head.

“Meg... look at me,” he asked again.

She opened her eyes and felt a jolt run through her body at seeing his face raw with emotion, those beautiful eyes shining at her with boundless love.

“Do not... even... think... of stopping,” she gasped. She was still feeling sore, but also thrilled at the ultimate closeness that she was now sharing with this man. It was gratifying to feel him move inside her body, to know that they were both truly naked before each other. And as she felt him shudder as he released himself inside her, she found herself kissing his face in sudden gratitude.

Afterwards, as she was drifting off to sleep in Guy’s arms, Meg whispered:

“It was not at all bad, really. I thought it would be much worse.”

Guy gave her a gentle smile.

“I promise it will get better after this,” he murmured back before kissing her ear. _And now, I have no choice but to try to stay alive at all costs, at least until I have married her._

_And now,_ thought Meg_, he has no choice, honourable as he is, to try to stay alive at least until he marries me. I hope it is long enough to get him out of danger._

***

Meg watched him dress in the morning, her heart breaking, her eyes wide with terror. Guy looked so incredibly handsome, and so resolute, and so smart in his sharply tailored clothes, that she could not help admiring him even as she wanted to berate him once more for his suicidal recklessness.

Instead, she made her best attempt at lifting their spirits.

“There is no reason for you to be condemned. You have been a hero in this city. Everyone knows that you fought bravely in the siege on the King’s side.” Meg walked up to him and straightened the collar of his jacket. “And you are gorgeous.”

“I hope King Richard thinks so,” said Guy absent-mindedly, having registered only the beginning of Meg’s remark.

“_I _hope _not_!” she said pointedly, thinking instead of the last bit she had said.

“What?” Guy’s uncomprehending look gave way to laughter as he realized the double entendre. “Oh, I am with you, my lovely, on that one.”

“Guy, are you sure that you do not want me to go with you?” Meg asked, again, as they descended the stairs.

“As much s it pains me to say so, yes.”

“And you would not let me if I asked?”

“It is better this way, ma chère.” _What if they drag me right off to the scaffold?_

They stopped in the doorway, and Guy gathered her in his arms, Meg barely able to hold back tears. They kissed, desperately, savagely, as if trying to get a lifetime’s worth of kisses into one, before Guy stood back and looked at her with a mixture of longing and resignation.

“Farewell, my love.”

“I shall pray for you,” Meg said as she watched him jump into the saddle and ride out of sight.

_And if you do not come back, I hope there shall be someone left to pray for me._

_._


	23. Chapter 23

One of the guards pushed open the door to the audience chamber and Guy stepped in -

To find Richard alone, a tall, imposing figure in the sparsely furnished room.

He had expected to see a room full of people, likely with more guards inside.

He certainly had not expected _this_.

He stopped just past the doorway, not knowing what to do. Should he kneel or should he bow? Right there, or should he walk up to Richard first? He was rather unschooled in the subtleties of royal etiquette.

And where Richard was concerned, his track record had been pretty dismal.

“Gisborne.”

He had never actually heard Richard speak, and was impressed with the commanding voice.

“Your Highness.”

“Come here.”

Guy stepped across the room to where Richard stood by the window and knelt before him, kissing the proffered hand. Who would have thought he would be doing this?

“Do you still wish to kill me?”

“I do not, Your Highness.” This was the last question Guy had expected to answer.

“Too bad... I would have enjoyed fighting you. Why are you here, then?”

“I have come to surrender to your mercy, Your Highness.” The words were sticking to his throat but he had to do it, for Meg. “My life is yours to dispose of as you please. But I would not attack my king again.”

“Your king... so you accept it now?”

“Yes, Highness.”

“Get up, Gisborne... I heard you were in my rebellious brother’s retinue for a while.”

“I was.”

“And then you turned against him and stopped his coronation.”

“Yes, Highness.”

“My dear brother has misbehaved in my absence, and I am glad he was stopped before he had done something... unforgivable.”

“But it was not only me. Robin of Locksley was the real hero on that day.”

_Who would have imagined that I would feel compelled to risk my best chance of pardon to give Robin his due?_

_“_Yes, I know... I have been told...” Richard had not expected to hear it from Gisborne, however. “You and Robin fought against each other most of the time, though, did you not?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“And you had a grudge against him. Why?”

_Because he betrayed my father. Because he took my land and made me destitute. Because he was a pesky brat._

_“_We... had our disagreements, Your Highness.... There was... a terrible accident in our childhood but... I cannot blame Robin for it. Not anymore. He was a brave man.”

“So are you, I hear.”

“I am honoured to hear it, Highness.”

“And yet you stole into my camp in the middle of the night to kill me, and tried to finish me off when I lay wounded.”

“I make no excuses, Highness.” _Oh, what the – might as well tell the whole truth. “_I was convinced at the time that it was for the good of England... and I believed that it would bring me personal gain.”

“Bravely spoken, Gisborne.” _Anyone else in his place would have wallowed on the floor begging for their lives_. _A man like this could be more use as an ally than a carcass_.

“I do not forget treason, Gisborne, but I do reward courage and I would not deny that you have plenty of it. From what I hear, you have acquitted yourself well in the siege of Nottingham, and had earlier turned against your superior, Sheriff Vasey, who was the mastermind of the Black Knight plot – and as recently as two weeks ago, killed the viper Mowbray when he showed up here. And I hear that my dear Robin came to trust you with his life eventually... and I would take his word against that of many. And on the weight of this, I pardon you for your crimes against me.” _At least the man has the good sense to kneel when granted royal favours_.” I heard about what happened to your family." He waved Guy’s gasp away. "And I know that you had legitimate claims to part of the Locksley estate. Well, you cannot have it. I am giving it to Lord Locksley’s surviving son, Archer. But now that your sister is dead, there is the matter of her and her husband’s estate; it would have been attainted anyway. I am giving it to you, Gisborne, and I am creating you First Baron of Thornton, in the hope that you continue to be a loyal servant to the crown. You may rise. What is it?” Richard asked tersely as he noticed the perplexed expression on Guy’s face.

“Your Highness... I was hoping, if I lived, to retain the name of Gisborne... and if I lived as a free man, I was hoping to restore the respect due to my father.”

“You can keep your name. And you can call the seat Gisborne Castle, if you wish. But you _cannot_ expect to rename the entire estate of Thornton, and I doubt that you would _want_ to add your name to the villages of Lesser Thornton and Thornton-upon-Pike,” Richard added with a glint of amusement in his eye.

Guy chuckled despite himself, trying his best to hide it. Richard was a most unexpected king.

“You may go now. But if you cross me again, Gisborne…“ Richard added as Guy backed towards the door, “you are dead.”

“I understand, Your Highness, and I swear upon...” _my honour, I should say but it has not been spotless as far as Richard is concerned_, “upon my lady’s love that I shall not betray you.”

_The man is gorgeous_, thought Richard observing the utterly disarming smile that lit up Gisborne’s chiselled face at the mention of his beloved, before he walked out of the chamber.

***

Guy walked out of the castle on trembling knees, his head spinning, unable to believe what had just happened. He had come to Nottingham castle that morning a condemned man, hoping only for a modicum of mercy, maybe for his life. He had walked out with a royal pardon, and a title, and once again with land to his name. And he had not even asked for it.

“Guy?” he missed a step and would have tumbled down most ungracefully if Meg had not jumped up to steady him. She had been sitting on the stairs just outside the entryway, having successfully bargained with the guard to yield her a temporary perch there.

“Meg! What are you doing here?” _What a stupid question. I am losing my mind from happiness_.

“Waiting for you, of course,” Meg was too relieved to have qualms about stating the obvious, or about having disregarded Guy’s request. In fact, she had been so worried about her betrothed as to briefly consider begging and whining her way past the guards as close to the audience chamber as they would let her – and into it if possible. “Are you safe?”

Guy regarded her with a smirk that was nothing short of satisfied.

“He granted me a pardon. Not only that, we have land, Meg! He has given me my brother-in-law’s estate. And you, my lady, will be the Baroness of Thornton in a month’s time. Meg?” he asked as she looked as if she were about to swoon, “what is the matter?”

“Pinch me, Guy, or slap me, so that I stop thinking this is all a dream!”

“I have a better idea,” he said as he gave her a long, loving kiss.

Between Friedrich of Bavaria, Prince John, and lately King Richard himself, the townsfolk of Nottingham had seen their share of wondrous characters and had learned to take it all in stride. But they could not help stopping to gawk in wordless amazement at the once formidable and fearsome Sir Guy of Gisborne steering his horse absent-mindedly through the streets as he smiled in a fond reverie at the lovely lady in his lap.

***

“Vous avez de beaux seins, ma chère,” Guy murmured to Meg as she lay with her back against his chest, his arms around her, his hands idly stroking her body.

“What are you saying?” She knew by then that Guy’s bedside vocabulary was almost exclusively Norman French, and scolded herself for her lack of attention at the French tutor’s lessons that Eleanor had invited her to share.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered.

“No, that’s not it; that would be vous etes belle, I know that,” she said teasingly, “you will need to teach me more French, Guy.”

“With great pleasure, ma chère,” he said in a low, seductive voice. “Especially as I can teach you by showing,” he ran his tongue along the length of her neck, “what I mean.”

“In that case,” she sighed contentedly, “the pleasure will be all mine.”

They had practically run to the bedchamber the moment they had returned to the inn, giddy with happiness, and freedom, and the promise of a trouble-free life, and the knowledge that the looming mortal danger was past. But their attitude had been very different from the frantic, frenzied passion of the night before; now they savoured every moment, every touch, every glance, taking pleasure in each other’s presence without the pain of imminent loss, watching closely for the other’s reaction, relishing the control each had over their partner – and the loss of it as they happily gave in to uninhibited bliss, delighting equally in giving pleasure and in being desired.

“You will drive me insane,” Guy moaned to her as she gazed at him with an alluring smile.

“In that case, my lord,” Meg whispered, “I shall go to the asylum with you.”

“We’ll never make it there,” he tried his best to sound matter-of-fact. “We’ll be at it in the lunatic wagon until the axles snap.”

“Who would have thought you had a gift for telling jokes!” managed Meg when she was able to stop laughing.

“Never had anyone to tell them to,” he replied quietly, and she had to start kissing him again to stop her heart from breaking.

The church bells had rung for vespers and the air was filling with evening birdsong when they had finally seemingly exhausted their lust.

“We probably should get dressed for supper, Guy,” Meg murmured lazily as she flipped onto her back. “We cannot stay in bed all day, can we?”

“You make it sound like a challenge,” purred Guy as he pulled her back toward him.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I assumed that the s3 action takes place in the summer of 1194, between about May and July (for accuracy’s sake, Richard was (a recent arrival) in England at the time, as of March) – until I checked and it looked like the show would have put it at 1195. Their Richard Coeur-de-Lion timeline is all wrong anyway.


	24. Chapter 24

“Let me get this straight,” Meg shook her head at Guy as she rummaged through the chest in her bedroom at her father’s house in Linby. Her hairpin had to be there somewhere... “You are saying that just because your mother married young to escape from _her_ father’s rule, you are afraid that _you_ could be a tyrant father?!”

They had been over this already in these past two weeks, Meg repeatedly waving aside Guy’s reservations about what sort of a father he would make. Meg herself had reconciled with her own father a month before - just after Guy had received his pardon – and at Guy’s insistence, at that. Yeoman Linby had, in fact, rued his wrathful outburst that had taken his daughter to dungeon and had nearly ended her life on the executioner’s block. He had intended to give the wilful Meg a good lesson, and maybe frighten her into submission, but it had not occurred to him that by doing so he would be putting her life in danger, and was infinitely grateful to finally see his daughter alive and well. Who would have thought that she would come out of her ordeal with a much better opinion of men, and as the future Baroness of Thornton, no less?

Anyway, with Meg’s opinion of her own father recently improved, and with what she had been gradually able to glean of Guy’s family history, with his parents having always treated each other with love and respect and their children with care, she was convinced that her betrothed would make a great father. True, he still showed an angry, even violent side at times, but it was never directed at her and, Meg was certain, would never be directed at children, his own or otherwise. In fact, she probably had more fears for Guy himself: having seen him fight, she could not help admiring his grace and skill, but was terrified for his well-being.

“I only say that it worries me,” Guy’s eventual response shook her out of her thoughts, “but I suppose it is too late to worry about that too much. Let us just pray that when the baby is due, it is healthy and happy and that you are well.”

There was a knock at the door as a maid entered.

“My lord... the barber is here.”

“You will have to excuse me, my lady.” Guy moved to the door. “I have to get my hair cut before the wedding.”

“Oh, and it was growing so nice and long,” Meg teased, “I was so looking forward to your hair growing longer than mine!” Her laughter accompanied him downstairs.

****

The wedding itself was a relatively quiet affair. Guy and Meg had agreed that they wanted a private ceremony in the village chapel, but one to be followed by a large reception in Nottingham open to townsfolk. When Meg had suggested also setting tables in the village for nearby peasants, Guy made a face but grudgingly agreed.

With the sumptuous banquet winding to a close, the newlyweds thought it best to slip away unnoticed back to Linby Manor to avoid the ceremonial circus that usually accompanied such proceedings.

They made their way back to the house just before midnight. As they neared the stairs leading to the bedchambers, Guy put a hand on his bride’s arm.

“Wait... we should do this properly.”

He lifted Meg in his arms and carried her upstairs all the way into the bedroom.

“Is there anything else I may do for my darling wife?” he purred seductively as he set her down on the bed.

Meg gave him a look of mock innocence that was disarming in its transparent pretence.

“Now that you are asking, my lord... you may remember a certain conversation we had before your royal audience. I have been thinking lately about the _tying to the bed_ part…” she said, twisting a corner of her veil suggestively into a semblance of a rope, “and even though you did marry me, I feel like doing it anyway.”

As Meg’s eyes studied his face, Guy blushed, absolutely, positively, unmistakably blushed, as he shook his head, his eyes cast down, trying in vain to suppress a laugh.

***

It was early dawn at the Portsmouth wharf, and there was only a faint breeze stirring the sails on the barges and cogs docked along the pier as Guy and Meg stood waiting for their chests to be loaded before boarding the ship for Calais.

They had resolved to use part of the rents from Thornton’s land and Meg’s dowry to buy an estate in Burgundy. With the political fortunes in England changing daily between Richard’s wars and John’s whims, and given Guy’s rather eventful history with both royal brothers, it seemed a good idea to have a safe haven on the continent. The idea was to buy land with a manor and a vineyard, and spend their time between France and the baronial seat in Shropshire. It had not taken long for Guy to talk Allan into moving to Shropshire to manage his estate during his absences; with Allan’s health restored, they had only to wait until his wedding to Sarah, who had hoped to get married with her Nottinghamshire family present.

“Will you not be sorry to spend half of your time away from England?” Guy asked, watching his wife’s excited face.

“Well, it will only be for a few months at a time. I will miss Eleanor but I am sure we shall visit each other while we are in Shropshire. What about you, Guy? Is not there anyone you would miss back here?”

“Of course there is. Now that you mention it… there _is_ someone I would miss a lot…” Guy drawled as he took in the suspicious glint in his wife’s eyes with a hint of amusement, “but I am taking her with me,” he added in a whisper as he drew Meg into another embrace.

“I still cannot believe how my life has changed in so little time, - Guy continued presently, his voice turning serious. -Just three months ago, I was waiting to be executed in the Nottingham dungeon, and looking forward to it. And it frightens me to think how close we were to never knowing each other. How close I was to losing you...

Meg squeezed her husband’s hand as she looked away at the expanse of water beyond the harbour. Surely, she could not rival Guy as far as reversal of fortune was concerned, but her life had looked very different too back then, and a lot less fulfilling. She pressed her lips to his fingers before she responded:

“You’ve heard what they say about the darkest hour, haven’t you? That the darkest hour is just before the dawn?”

Guy’s answer was so quiet that she had to strain to hear it.

“Truer words have never been spoken, my love.”

Meg lifted her gaze to her husband’s face and felt her breath falter at his radiant smile that looked, for all the world, like the most glorious sunrise.

.

_fin_

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The _darkest hour_ saying was first officially recorded in the 17th century, so having someone quote it is not 100% historically accurate; but it fit the story too well, and the notion is pretty universal anyway.


End file.
